Hybrid
by Kootenai
Summary: What happens when a lone wolf meets a person who is more than what they seem? A shape shifting AU. Johnlock chapter story. The story is marked as complete because I can't finish it right now, but the last chapter details what would have happened/what is yet to come if I ever do finish it.
1. Lone Wolf and Cat

**Title**: Hybrid

**Author:** Kootenai

**Pairing:** John Watson/Sherlock Holmes

**Rating**: T

**Word Count: **1,250

**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to ACD and BBC. Sadly.

**Summary**: What happens when a lone wolf meets a person who is more than what they seem? A shape shifting AU. Johnlockchapter story. **Review please!**

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><p>Chapter One ~ Part One ~ Lone Wolf<p>

London had always been a magical place where the past and the present blended together in a single landscape. For as long as anybody could remember people had been in touch with their animal halves. It was not uncommon for somebody to see another person in the street with ears of a cat or feathers in their hair like a bird. Some choice people were able to shift themselves completely into the form of their respective animals, while some were only able to embody it. Most, however, were capable of controlling aspects of their features to reflect their inner nature. John Watson was not one of those people.

For most of his life, John didn't have a spirit animal. It wasn't that it didn't exist, but more like he didn't really care to kindle the relationship between the two of them. If anything, he thought he was a lion, but didn't tell anyone that. John thought the whole business of one's spiritual animal was private because it told others more about yourself then anybody had the right to know. That changed when he went to the war.

The war taught him things, taught him how trust is so important, how being loyal to your friends and family can make all the difference. Mostly though, it taught him that on the inside he was a wolf. A very lonely wolf at that. He lived for his friends, who he now thought of as a pack, and he would kill anybody who dared try and hurt them. John had an undying loyalty, a strong sense of courage, and was prepared to travel any distance to ensure that his life and the others around him were safe. When he was wounded, he was outcast and sent home. Something that, to a wolf, proved he was no longer needed and cast away. So, John became a lone wolf stalking the edges of London society.

While most people changed outwardly after discovering their animal half, John changed very little. His canine teeth were a tad bit longer and sharper, he liked his meat rarer, his ears were tapered just a bit at the ends, and his hair had a sort of downy fluff under the coarse blond human hairs. The thing that stuck out the most were his eyes. Once a deep blue, they now sparkled with gold in soft-lit areas. It bothered John a little when he noticed it the first time. _That isn't normal, even for you._ His hearing improved, and sight had definitely become keener. But he would trade all of it to belong somewhere again.

So now he had nowhere to go, and nothing to do. Most of the time, he walked around St. Reagent's park, stalking the borders of his home territory. This was how he came across Stamford, another person he knew who didn't contact their animal selves, sitting by himself eating a sandwich.

"John?"

_Keep walking, John. You don't know him. He's just another person on your–_

"John Watson?"

John turned slightly to look at Stamford, "Yes?"

"John, it's me, Mike."

That was how he and Mike ended up sitting on a bench and catching up. When John mentioned that he was looking for somewhere to stay and that he couldn't be the easiest person to share a flat with, Stamford laughed.

"What?"

The other man turned his head and looked at John, "You know, you're the second person to say that to me today."

He raised an eyebrow and asked the question that would change his life, "Really? Who was the first?"

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><p>Chapter One ~ Part Two ~ Cat's Cradle<p>

Sherlock Holmes always knew he was different. It wasn't because he had grown up the way he had, nor was it his massive intellect. Well, that did put him apart from the others, but that was not the real reason. Sherlock had been aware for almost his entire life that he had two spirit animals.

Growing up, he had learned that people only had one animal half, and that is why it was called a half. By the age of three, everyone in the Holmes household knew that Sherlock was a cat. At four years old, he explained carefully that he was actually a black leopard, which is the same thing as a black panther but is more scientifically correct, _thank you very much_. When he was five, he felt a nagging presence at the back of his mind that told him to jump when he was near the top of the stairs. Sherlock never told anybody about it, and kept the idea to himself for another couple of years before he decided to figure out what it meant. Curiosity did kill the cat.

So when he was eight Sherlock climbed to a balcony and sat on the railing. He sat there for an hour, waiting for the feeling to tell him to jump. Instead he felt a warm tug on his shoulders. Quietly, he shed his shirt and the heat ran down his spine, pulling at his shoulder blades just hard enough to ache, but not hard enough to hurt. He reveled in the feeling of weight coming from his back and stretched his arms out only to have the oddly pleasant feeling of another stretch going out his back. Suddenly he heard a soft rustle behind him and reached around. In between his fingers were glossy black feathers attached to wings that had sprouted from his shoulder blades. Carefully, he wrapped his fingers around a feather and pulled it gently from its place, wincing at the unexpected pain. When it had been removed, Sherlock brought the feather to his cat-green eyes and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. _Corvus Corax_, _I'm a raven._

That night, he brought the wings back into his body and decided that nobody should ever know he had two spirit animals. To hide the raven in him, he dedicated himself to creating an unearthly feline grace. The way he walked, turned his head, played with his food, stepped around things, smiled when content, lazed about, and even the way he looked at people. It all became so obvious that he was a cat, there was no doubt that he was ever anything else. He never went to doctors when he broke something, in fear that x-rays would show that he had hollow bones, which he did. It was another reason why he was so light. To make this fact less obvious, he ate less and had others blame his eating habits for his featherweight. Years passed and he grew up, fooling everyone into the belief he was just another cat.

When he was by himself, he looked at the feather he pulled out as a child and would run his fingers along the edge. It was only when he knew he was alone that he freed his wings and stretched them, taking the time to preen them as a meditative action. Sherlock almost pitied the fact that nobody could see his wings, but knew that with all the natural gifts he had, it would be better to be less of a freak than everybody already thought he was.

However, being a freak didn't pay the rent, so when he told Stamford he was looking for a flat-mate, he wasn't lying to him. What he did not expect was for him to return with a suitable candidate that afternoon.


	2. Curiosity of a Cat & The Wandering Wolf

**Oh my god… I had no idea that when I started this that so many people would favorite and subscribe to "Hybrid". ****My inbox is full of notifications! THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH! I'd hug you if I could, but instead I'll just give you more fiction.**

**Disclaimer: All the characters in this fic belong to BBC and ACD and I'm sad they aren't mine… So very sad…**

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><p>Chapter Two ~ Part One ~ Curiosity of the Cat<p>

Sherlock had been having an off day. He had lost a suspect in chase and cursed himself for what felt like the thousandth time this year for hiding his ability to fly. When Molly had called him, he took no time in getting to the morgue so he could beat the frustration out on a dead body. It was times like this that made him feel like a normal person taking his anger out on another.

One black cat ear on his head swiveled towards the sound of footsteps on the linoleum, and Sherlock tilted his head to see Molly. While she was speaking, he categorized her appearance again; trying to find what was wasn't there before. She reminded him of a Labrador, even though he was pretty sure that dogs weren't usually spirit animals. All Sherlock had to go on was big, brown eyes and an unending need to be loved an accepted by the people around her.

Sherlock briefly noted that Molly had put on lipstick and then shot down the obvious attempt at flirting with a quick, "Black. Two sugars. I'll be upstairs."

He shed his coat and hung it up with his favorite blue scarf. It had been a given to him only after he learned the patience of not pouncing on every thing that caught his interest, much like the ball of yarn it was made out of. Stretching his arms above him, Sherlock let out a lazy yawn and smile at the feeling. His ears twitched back and forth on the top of his head as he made his way over to the microscope. No matter what he did or pretended to be, he would never put those cat ears away. Sherlock couldn't remember when he last had human ears; they were so inefficient compared to a leopard's.

Settling behind the eyepiece, Sherlock lost himself in science for a quarter of an hour before he heard footsteps outside again. _Heavier than Molly's, two sets of feet, one cane? Yes, a walking aid. A limp then. Oh, that's Stamford, I'd recognize those rubber soles on the tiles anywhere. So, then who is the limper?_ All these thoughts whizzed around in his head before the door actually opened and he heard a clear voice ring out.

"A bit different in my day."

Sherlock looked over, feeling the light from the microscope illuminate his irises. He scanned the man quickly with his eyes. _Army, the way he stands and his hair cut, recently deployed then. Must be an army doctor if he had been to Bart's previously. No visible animal traits. Interesting._

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" He knew full well that Stamford didn't have his mobile on him.

"What's wrong with the landline?"

_It's filthy, and I don't like talking to people. _"I prefer to text."

"Here, use mine," the new voice said.

Sherlock quirked up an eyebrow, and stood to take the man's phone. He took the time to deduce the possible flat-mate while he texted. _Tan, but not below the neck or past the wrist line, limp is psychosomatic, he seems to have forgotten the cane while he is standing. Ears are tapered at the ends, indicating some sort of mammal, hair has a down layer, so something that sheds or is used to changes in temperature. Irises glint a lighter yellow color that is not blue in sudden changes of light, pupils do not dilate when approached by a predator, so a predator as well. Must trust Stamford to come with him to introduce him to me, so a pack animal. Wolf, but doesn't like to show it. A lone wolf._ Sherlock finished the text and handed the phone back to the man. _Interesting._

"How do you feel about the violin?"

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><p>Chapter Two ~ Part Two ~ The Wandering Wolf<p>

John really had no idea why he was following Stamford down the halls of St. Bart's. The whole place smelled slightly like disinfectant and it bothered his now sensitive nose. The other thing that bothered him was the distinct pattern of Mike's rubber soles on the tile as they walked. John had the feeling he could pick the man out of a crowd of walking people. When they turned a corner, Mike gestured to the door and ushered John inside.

John looked around the room at all the equipment, "A bit different in my day."

He noticed a thin man propped up behind a microscope, black cat ears twitching atop his head. They seemed to flawlessly join brown-black curls that fell gracefully around the man's face. He had high cheekbones, seemingly cut from stone. There were lips that had a prominent cupid's bow, which somehow came across as very feline to John. Under furrowed brows were the most amazing cat-green eyes he had ever seen, and they were flicking across John's body as if looking for some information.

With an air of lazy grace that could only be expected from a cat, the man extended his hand expectantly towards John and Mike, his long fingers uncurling gently from his palm.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?"

The voice was like a velvet purr, and for a moment John wondered how such a thin body could possible create such a deep and pure baritone.

"What's wrong with the landline?"

Suddenly, John wondered that too. _Why ask for a phone?_

"I prefer to text."

John felt a slight smirk crawl up his face. _Oh, a little immature. That's-_ He caught himself before he thought it. _No, John. This man is not cute. He's obviously a predator. Look at those ears and the way he doesn't give a shit about the rest of the world. He'd eat you for breakfast._ Intrigued by this mysterious cat man, John reached into his own pocket and fished out his phone, then held it between them.

"Here, use mine."

He watched as the man uncurled himself from his station and walked up to John, seemingly studying him with those now gray-green eyes. They were hypnotic, really. A moment of wordless understanding seemed to pass between them when their eyes locked as the man took John's phone and sent a text. _He's different. _John accepted the phone as it was handed back to him and watched as the man turned his back to John as he strode back to the microscope.

"How do you feel about the violin?"


	3. Crossing the Cat & Wolf by the Ears

**Thank you all for following this! Your reviews are wonderful! I have no idea if I'm going to write up cases or not, seeing as this is sort of tedious enough as is. Sooner or later this "part one and two" business will disappear, and it'll just be conversation and thoughts in one scene. I know that this isn't going to always follow the script, and I'm warning you ahead of time so that you don't flip out on me when I miss something. PLEASE REVIEW IF YOU LIKE THE STORY! It's like blood to us authors… WE NEED THEM OR WE DIE!**

**Disclaimer: No I don't own one speck of these amazing characters, except the animalistic embellishments on their actions. I would like to thank ACD for making this ship all the way back in the 1800's. Also to Martin Freeman for being the person he is, and a huge thanks to Benedict's already feline movements and brilliant raven way of thinking. And crowns go to Moffat and Gatiss even though I want to STRANGLE them sometimes.**

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><p><span>Chapter Three ~ Part One ~ To Cross A Black Cat's Path<span>

John stared at the man, "Sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days on end… Would that bother you? Potential flat-mates should know the worst about each other."

John blinked a few times, and then looked accusingly towards Mike, "You- you told him about me?"

A corner on Mike's face rose in a knowing smile, "Not a word. I didn't even introduce you." He nodded to the man then pointed towards John, "This is an old friend of mine, John Watson."

John stared back at Mike, remembering that he hadn't been introduced to this strangely brilliant cat man. "Then who said anything about flat-mates?"

He watched the man's cat ears swivel on his head while he turned around and pulled a suit coat on over his black button down. "I did. Told Mike just this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flat-mate for." His thin arm snaked through the sleeve and draped itself perfectly on his frame. John watched half hypnotized and half in shock. "And here he is, just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just back from military service in Afghanistan. It was no difficult leap."

The gears in John's head started to turn, _I hadn't said a word about where I was stationed._ "How did you know about Afghanistan?"

The man's ears twitched with recognition of John speaking, but ignored him as he tied a navy blue scarf around his neck with the precision that only came from doing it many times. When he finished he pulled out the phone that he had obviously known was in his pocket, and checked it without looking over at John.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." He pulled on a long, dark jacket and turned towards John, eyes reflecting the light from the screen in an eerie way. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. Left my riding crop in the mortuary." His delicate eyebrows shot up a tad at the mention of his riding crop, and then proceeded to walk past John towards the door.

John blinked in disbelief, feeling some sort of frustration at the strange man. In a way, he felt like jumping him and baring his teeth until he got an answer, but restrained himself by asking a question, "Is that it?"

The man's ears perked up as he turned on his heel, coat swishing dramatically, and "Is that what?" His voice was practically a drawn out purr.

"We've only just met, and we're going to go look at a flat?"

He looked towards Mike, then back at John, his cat eyes glinting with mischief, "Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

The strange man blinked twice and started on a sudden rant, "I know that you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know that while you were over there you discovered a long dormant part of you, which you do not like to reveal due to privacy. It was also the reason you were stationed in Afghanistan and not Iraq. I know you've got a brother who is worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him. Possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid… That's enough to be going on with don't you think?"

John pursed his lips, keeping himself from flying off the handle. The man turned to go out the door, then stuck his head back in.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street," he gave John a sly wink and clicked his tongue. "Afternoon."

The mop of curly dark hair vanished behind the door, and John looked over at Mike, eyebrow raised.

"Yeah. He's always like that."

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><p><span>Chapter Three ~ Part Two ~ Holding A Wolf By the Ears<span>

Sherlock waited briefly for the confusion to set in. His rapid mind already believing that this man, whoever he was, was going to be a good flat-mate.

"Sorry, what?"

He grinned to himself and looked over the man again, "I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days on end… Would that bother you? Potential flat-mates should know the worst about each other."

Sherlock watched as could practically hear the gears turn in the wolf's head, and then turned gracefully as he spoke to Mike. _So his name is John Watson, simple easy name to remember. John…_ His hand was already at his suit jacket and was pulling it on when John addressed him about being flat-mates.

"Then who said anything about flat-mates?"

"I did. Told Mike just this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flat-mate for." He fed his arm through the sleeve, feeling a predator's eyes on his back. _Oh, this is going to work splendidly. Not bad looking either, seems reliable too. _ "And here he is, just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just back from military service in Afghanistan. It was no difficult leap."

"How did you know about Afghanistan?"

_All in good time, John. All in good time. _ He purposefully ignored John and picked up his scarf, which he absentmindedly folded in half and then tied loosely around his neck. His long fingers reached into his pocket and pulled out his Blackberry, which had been working all along. Sherlock looked at an update on the police feed, feeling those blue eyes tinted with gold watching his every move.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." Sherlock reached out and pulled on his long coat without stopping any movement. He was as fluid as he was graceful, and it was only from years of practice that he achieved the feline grace. The light from the screen played across his face as Sherlock walked towards John. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. Left my riding crop in the mortuary." _I did leave it in there didn't I? _ He watched John's reaction to the mention of the riding crop carefully and filed the next-to-no reaction away in a section of his mind he was beginning to fill out with information on this man.

Sherlock reached the door before John spoke again, "Is that it?"

He turned dramatically, he was half cat, so why wouldn't he have a flair for the dramatic? "Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're going to look at a flat?"

_Sharp one, isn't he? _ He sent an approved look over at Mike for bringing him such a good potential flat-mate then back at John. "Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

Sherlock took in this information, and then decided that if John was indeed going to make a good flat-mate, then he had to deal with rapid amounts of information being fed to him. He blinked twice before taking in a breath and letting out a string of observations.

"I know that you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know that while you were over there you discovered a long dormant part of you, which you do not like to reveal due to privacy. It was also the reason you were stationed in Afghanistan and not Iraq. I know you've got a brother who is worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him. Possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid… That's enough to be going on with don't you think?"

He ended some of the harsh "k" sounds briskly, almost like a knife on a chopping board, feeling the words tumble out of his mouth in a low and sudden stream. Sherlock was well aware of the effect his voice had on people, but hoped this didn't prove an issue to John.

Sherlock gave himself a mental nod as John pursed his lips, obviously trying to keep the animal at bay. He had already opened the door before poking his head back in and addressing John.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street," he gave a quick wink and a click of the tongue before pulling out of the room. "Afternoon."

He closed the door behind him and heard Stamford reply to what Sherlock was sure was a questioning stare from John. He chuckled to himself as he retrieved his riding crop and checked up on the bruises on the body. After making mental notes on the formations, he strode out of the mortuary and past Molly, who was walking by with his cup of coffee. Sherlock gave her a smirk and a nod, then left just as mysteriously as he had the room where John was now standing.

_I've got a good feeling about this. Now then… I should stretch my wings. No idea when I'll have a chance to do that again._ Sherlock hailed a cab and rode in silence to Montague Street, where only a few things of his remained. Climbing the stairs, he shut himself in the flat and tore off his coat and shirt.

Quickly and quietly he pulled the blinds and checked the flat for any cameras. Satisfied he was alone, Sherlock succumbed to the blissful ache as his wings pulled themselves from his back. No longer a child, the feathers grew out from the crown of his head and down his back, reminding him of a Native American headdress. Sherlock rolled his neck, cracking the bones in a simple symphony.

The blue-black wings now stretched well past his arms when opened completely. He never really had a chance to accurately measure the wing-span, but he was sure it was somewhere around fifteen feet. He relished in the feeling of opening and closing his extra limbs then caught himself in a mirror.

_Keep them hidden. Keep yourself safe. Don't ever let John see them. You might finally have a flat-mate, and you don't want him thinking you are a freak just yet._

He nodded to himself and sighed, absentmindedly reaching back and feeling the place where one feather never grew back. _Freak._


	4. To Give A Dog A Bone

**Thank you all for reading this far! I'm so incredibly happy that you've decided to continue reading "Hybrid" which has become the most read fic I've written. A quick note, this chapter merges the two viewpoints. I can't keep writing all this back and forth and I'm sure it gets confusing for you as a reader. I am completely aware that some of the lines don't match up with BBC Sherlock, and I want you to know "DON'T PANIC!" I'm doing this for a reason. _While you aren't panicking, you might want to locate your towel. Just in case._**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, or any of the characters. They belong to Moffat and Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The only bit I own is the way they are portrayed here. I don't get anything from this but the wonderful feeling that people are reading what I write.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Four ~ To Give a Dog a Bone<strong>

At precisely seven in the evening on the day following his first encounter with Sherlock Holmes, John found himself at 221B Baker Street. It was a nice street, and smelled clean for London, which was a plus in his eyes. Next to the green door with the golden address was a sandwich shop, which let out a heavenly aroma of freshly baked bread. In the back of his mind, John wondered exactly why anybody would need fresh bread at this time of day, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. Instead he stood on the sidewalk, eyes closed and a hand wrapped around the handle of his aluminum cane. If there was one thing on earth John loved about having a higher sense of smell, it was the detail of scent from well-crafted items in a kitchen. Tea was his favorite smell, and he made it almost just for the aroma and not to drink.

His ears picked up the sound of near silent footsteps approaching him from behind and he smelled something that reminded him of a dark forest, alive but a subtle change in pace, a new way of looking at things. His eyelids slowly opened and he turned to face the thin man with ears perched atop his head.

"Found it alright then?" Sherlock's voice was something that could easily hypnotize a person, but John found it simple to listen to. It was precise and enunciated certain syllables clearer than others. When words weren't being passed through the man's lips, there was almost a low and content humming that registered as a purr in John's ears.

"Yeah. But this is really a prime spot, how do you think we can afford it?"

Sherlock tilted his head, taking in the man he had decided would make an excellent flat-mate. Here he was, not having known Sherlock for more than ten minutes as was perfectly fine with looking at a flat. He grinned to himself, something that seemed to put some people off.

"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady is giving me a special deal. She owes me a favor," He reached up and gently wrapped his leather gloved fingers around the doorknocker and proceeded to knock a few times before stepping back towards John. Sherlock laced his fingers together behind his back and rolled his weight up to the balls of his feet, rocking slightly. "A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help her."

John looked over at the man who was obviously proud of himself for some past accomplishment, "So you stopped her husband from being executed?"

There was a moment where Sherlock's grey-green cat eyes locked with John's gold tinted blue ones, and John could swear he felt a shiver go up his spine. It was as if the most judgmental eyes on the planet were examining him, then suddenly as the moment happened, it passed with a smirking grin across Sherlock's face.

"Oh, no. I ensured it."

John blinked, as was about to ask what the hell the man meant when the door opened and a little lady in her fifties or sixties stepped out and gave Sherlock a hug. For an aloof cat, he didn't seem to mind the contact.

"Sherlock!"

"Mrs. Hudson."

"Come in, come in," she ushered the two men inside and started to climb the stairs at the end of the entranceway. John watched her quietly, noting that sort of shuffled from here to there. After Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock strode up the stairs with such grace that John wondered if the man was ever even a bit human or if he was actually just a big cat with good taste in men's clothes.

"Coming, John?"

"Give me a minute. Stairs aren't my favorite things in the world anymore."

Sherlock watched from the top of the stairs lazily. _That limp really is an issue for him… I wonder how often he plans on leaving the flat? Seventeen stairs just to get the mail. _He wrinkled his nose at the thought of John walking up and down the stairs for all eternity. When the man with gold dusted blue eyes reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock rolled his eyes playfully. John just gave him a short growl, telling him without words to shut his trap.

The door to the main room was open, and two things amazed John immediately. The first was how nice the room actually was. There were two chairs set near a fireplace and a settee arranged near them for a pleasant seating area. A desk was pushed up against a wall, and a coffee table was lounging idly in the middle of the room. There was a certain warmth to the area that John took a liking to instantly.

The second thing that jumped out at him was the absolutely messy state of the flat. There were papers and books everywhere, as if the last tenant had decided that it was fine to show as is. John looked around and decided that this actually would make a fairly nice place to live once the clutter was cleaned out.

"This could do brilliantly."

Sherlock gave John a brief nod, "Exactly what I was thinking."

John started to speak; "Now all we have to do is clean up this-"

"I've already brought my things, so once you move-"

The two stared at each other, but Sherlock was the first to move. _Stupid, well you want him to stay don't you? Make room for him. _He moved around the flat, stabbing a stack of letters with a knife. "Well, I could clean up a bit…"

John watched as the man tried to make an organized mess out of a complete paper battle zone. His eyes followed Sherlock as he stabbed some letters into the mantle. Next to them however was… "What is that?"

Sherlock looked over at the item that John seemed to be staring at. It was his skull, _well not MY skull, per say…_ He shrugged. "Friend of mine. When I say friend…"

John caught the slight grin of playfulness on Sherlock's face, and let the statement slip. Mrs. Hudson was walking around the kitchen, which John had decided was not going to make his favorite smells. It looked like part of Bart's had made it's way into the flat and grown there like a fungus until it covered the whole kitchen.

"Sherlock, the mess you've made…"

The man she was addressing rolled his eyes and slipped off his coat, hanging it on a coat rack. He was walking to the window when suddenly he saw something that should have never been left out.

John followed his line of vision and saw a single black feather resting on a laptop. It was a long feather, possibly a primary from what John knew about birds. What he also knew was that this was in no way from an actual bird itself.

"How'd you get that?"

Sherlock walked quickly and quietly towards the feather and snatched it up, then shoved in unceremoniously into a penholder on the messy desk. John caught a brief flash of something that looked like pain play across the dark haired man's face. _If he didn't want to rough it up, then he could just tell me-_

"Not important."

"Are you kidding me? For a person with a bird spirit, giving away a feather is like giving away a bit of their soul! Big ones, like those, don't grow back. You should treat it better."

Every hair on Sherlock's head seemed to stand up as he froze in place, "John, that feather is not important. But if you think it means so much, then please, don't touch it."

John was about to respond when Mrs. Hudson walked back in from the kitchen. "There's an extra bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing it, dearie."

Sherlock smiled to himself, secretly blessing Mrs. Hudson's timing, then walked over to the window, ears on alert.

"Of course we'll be needing two bedrooms," John looked back and forth between Sherlock and the landlady with a shocked expression.

Mrs. Hudson however, seemed to dismiss this and just patted John on the arm, "It's alright. We've got all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner next door has herself a pair of married ones."

The man at the window quirked an eyebrow up at the slightly flustered man in the center of the room and watched him take a seat in the chair that Sherlock never used. _He just fits there… Like he belongs. _He turned his attention back to the street in front of him.

"Would you like a cup of tea, then?" The woman asked John.

"Yeah, tea sounds nice…" He nodded to himself, unsure of why he felt so at peace here.

"Just this once, though. I'm not your housekeeper," she clucked from the kitchen. John heard something uttered under Sherlock's breath that sounded a bit like, "Such a mother hen…"

John coughed a bit, "So… I, eh, looked you up on the internet last night."

The dark haired man turned his head and tilted it to a degree where he couldn't look any more like a curious cat, "Oh? And what did you think?"

He was obviously expecting praise, or at least something other than the look John was giving him. The corners of Sherlock's mouth pressed down into a genuine frown.

"You claim you can tell a software designer from his tie, and an airplane pilot from his left thumb."

"I can, just like I read your military career from your face and leg, and your brother's drinking habits from your mobile, and the nature of the spirit you possess by…"

John leaned foreword in the chair, _How the hell did he know what I am just by looking at me?_ "Yes?"

There was the slam of a car door out on the street, and Sherlock swiveled his head to look out the window, ears pricked up for any source of sound.

The only sound John heard was Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen fixing tea, and her shuffling steps as she walked into the main room and looked at a paper.

"What about these suicides, Sherlock? Why aren't you investigating those? Seems right up your street. How many have there been now? Four?"

Sherlock was saved from having to answer John by furrowing his brows as he stared out the glass, "Five, and yes… Quite up my street actually…"

John looked over at the paper Mrs. Hudson had moved. The headline was about the recent four suicides and how the police were baffled by the cases. _And what does a man who spends time in a mortuary with a riding crop have to do with these cases?_

Almost on cue, the answer walked up the stairs and into the flat. This answer took the shape of a man in his forties, built strong with an air of responsibility about him. He had brown eyes and silver gray hair that was cut a little longer than John's army cut. The man wore a dark leather jacket and jeans, but John smelled something that reminded him of the war on this man. His clothes smelled slightly of the dead.

Brown eyes met blue and John raised an eyebrow, while the man raised one back. It didn't take long for John to sort out what kind of person he was; in fact he practically wore his animal on his sleeve. From the top of the stranger's head were two triangular silver ears with black tips. He didn't seem to like John staring at him, his discomfort obvious with the swishing back and forth of a bushy grey tail tipped with white. _First time seeing a silver fox, I must admit I'm not too impressed…_ Some of the men back in Afghanistan were foxes, sly and clever, often thinking their way out of the toughest of places. This man just seemed to have the physical characteristics of the fox, and none of the personality.

Sherlock addressed him in a voice of dull business, "What is different about the fifth one, Lestrade?"

"You know how there are never any clues? Well this one left a note. Can you come?" Lestrade had an ordinary voice that was woven with a sense of duty and a string or two of authority.

"Who is on forensics?"

"Anderson."

Sherlock let out a hiss that reminded John of a rather upset cat, "No. Anderson won't work with me. I need an assistant."

"Look, it's the best we have at the moment. Are you coming?"

There was a pause, where Sherlock seemed to be weighing the options of helping against the idea of working with Anderson. He let out a sigh, "Not in the police car… I'll follow behind in a taxi."

The fox nodded and turned on his heel, silver tail flicking back and forth until it was out of sight. John watched as Sherlock waited for the man to be out of earshot before jumping up and down, like a child.

"Brilliant! Yes! Four serial suicides and now a note! Oh it's Christmas!" Sherlock danced around the flat, pulling his coat on and quickly refastening the scarf around his neck. "Something cold for me later, thanks Mrs. Hudson."

"Sherlock, it's indecent the way you're acting!"

"It's on, Mrs. Hudson! The game is on!"

And as fast as the man had whirled around the flat, he was gone, with Mrs. Hudson shouting behind him that she was not his housekeeper. John was still processing everything in the chair as Mrs. Hudson walked around him and offered him a cup of tea again.

"You're more of a sitting type, I can tell. So sorry about your leg-"

There was a sudden break in John's control as his brain started to short circuit from the information overload, "DAMN MY LEG!"

It had come out in a feral growl that caused the poor landlady to jump.

"I'm sorry. It's just… my leg."

Sherlock had reached the door on the first floor before stopping, thinking about the man upstairs in his cable knit jumper and his hidden nature. _I do need an assistant, somebody who I can work with… _He quietly climbed the stairs again and leaned up against the doorframe as John had his little outburst. _And he is here. He's an army doctor, probably a faster thinker than the forensics team… _Sherlock made his presence known by pulling on a leather glove as loud as he could without being distracting.

John looked up at the man in the doorway, an eyebrow raised.

"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."

"Yes," John replied as he grabbed his cane and pulled himself into a standing position.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, thinking. His ears were standing at attention in his dark curls, picking up any and every sound John made. "Any good?"

John straightened up, feeling that suddenly he was about to have purpose again, "Very good."

In few lazy strides, Sherlock walked up towards John, his nimble fingers still pulling on gloves. "Seen a lot of injuries then? Violent deaths?"

"Hn, yes."

They were now standing quite close, and John could smell the strangely refreshing smell of a dark forest roll off of Sherlock. Neither man blinked as the taller one continued speaking, "A bit of trouble too, I bet."

"Of course. Yes, enough for a lifetime. Far, far too much."

Sherlock let a small pause drift between them before asking the most important question.

"Want to see some more?" The corner of his mouth rose up a little in a sneaky half smile.

Without missing a beat, the wolf inside John, the part that craved adventure and adrenaline answered him.

"Oh, god. Yes."

Sherlock saw it in John's eyes. There was a fierce blaze of determination glowing in the embers of gold sprinkled in a sea of blue. _And if that doesn't make this man special, I don't know what does._

John followed him out of the flat and down the stairs. It took him a little longer to get to the first floor, but had the wonderful reward of seeing Sherlock's outline against the light coming from outside. Something in the back of his mind whispered, _This man is going to change your life, John Watson. Remember this moment as the beginning of some grand adventure into the unknown, and never forget that you owe the adventure all to him. If that doesn't make him special enough to be part of your pack, I don't know what does._

Sherlock raised a hand and called a taxi, and the two of them were hurtling off towards what would be the biggest turning point in both their lives. It was the most important turning point, because neither of them was going on this adventure alone.

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><p><strong>And the case begins! Trust me, I have a lot more to write, so stick with me and the boys as they learn just how much they truly need each other. I promise that this will eventually get to Johnlock and John finding out about Sherlock's secret, so hang in there. Reviews are welcome, always welcome! So long and thanks for all the fish! ~Kootenai<strong>


	5. Rabbit Season

**Gah! So sorry that it took this long to update. I think that I actually can't write if I'm on my ADHD meds… Thanks for sticking with the story, thank you for subscribing, but mostly, thank you so very much for reading. I'm going to update as often as I can, at least once a week. College is hard…**

**I don't own anything. SAD FACE.**

Chapter Five ~ Rabbit Season

The cab ride had been silent as Sherlock's thumbs ran over the keyboard of his Blackberry. When he finished with whatever it was he was so very intent on doing, he slipped the mobile back into his pocket and laced his long fingers together in front of him, glancing out the window.

"Alright, you've got questions."

John turned a little towards the man he was now sharing a flat with, "Yeah, a few. Where are we going?"

Sherlock's ears flicked back and forth with a tad bit of impatience, "Crime scene, next."

"You're a cat aren't you?" It was more of a statement than a question, but John figured it was important to get out there.

"Black leopard, actually, but feline." _Is this actually going somewhere?_

"So, why don't you have a tail then?" When John was curious, there were some things he felt needed to be answered, for some odd reason, this was one of them.

The edge of Sherlock's lip twitched upwards in a smile that shown he had not thought he was going to be asked this question, "Three reasons. The first being that tails are impractical unless one has a need for a balancing aid, which I do not. The second is that a tail would mean having to have all my clothes tailored towards the comfort of a useless limb. The third being my bone structure isn't the most adept for it and let's leave it at that."

Sherlock's bone structure was actually the only legitimate reason he did not allow a tail on his frame. Hollow bones made for an obvious weakness in a tail, and he did not want somebody grabbing it, even by mistake, and finding that he was more than just a man with a cat for a spiritual half. Or third. However it works with hybrids such as him, if there were any others.

There was a soft laugh as John processed this, "I'd suppose you would think a tail is impractical."

There was a curt nod from Sherlock's side of the cab, "Next."

John looked over and let his eyes run up and down Sherlock's darkly clothed form. _I'm not checking him out, I'm just… looking. _"Who are you? What do you do?"

A twitch from the ears on Sherlock's head gave John some sort of clue that he was annoyed, but putting up with him for some unknown reason. "What do you think?"

"Well, I'd say private detective, but…"

Sherlock glanced over and caught John staring. There was another brief moment where their eyes met and he held the gaze, "But?"

"But the police don't go to private detectives."

_Clever, clever, Watson. Look at you, there might be hope for your brain yet._ Sherlock gave a brief smile, letting John know he was on the right track. "I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job."

John raised an eyebrow, curious, "And what does that mean?"

A sigh was released as the man with cat ears looked back out the window and observed London crawl past them outside the cab, "It means that whenever the police are out of their depths- which is always- they consult me."

There was a scoff of disbelief as John looked out his respective window, allowing Sherlock the chance to rake his eyes over his new companion. _I'm just observing. The more I can observe, the better this can work out between us. Nothing more, nothing less._

"The police don't consult amateurs."

_No, they don't, John. No they don't. _ A sly smirk rose up Sherlock's face as he tilted his head back enough to catch John's eye. "When I first met you yesterday, I told you that you were stationed in Afghanistan. You seemed surprised."

John allowed himself to meet the almost luminous green-grey eyes on the other side of the cab, "Yes, how _did_ you know?"

The smirk grew into a full knowing grin, sharp canine teeth grazing a full lower lip. "I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room- said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists- you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic - wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq. Now, your animal half told which it was. Certain mixes are preferred in each situation, considering that you don't show much of a physical change, you must have either just found your other half or you've been suppressing it, the latter is more likely seeing as a predatory instinct, such as the animal you are sharing a body with, would've saved you many times over and you would be more grateful to it. That and you think the whole thing is a private business, based on how little you care for it now. I must agree on most points with this behavior. Although I have no recollection of a cat ever agreeing with a wolf on any matter before this."

John listened, there really wasn't much else he could do. _That voice, a man who looked like Sherlock shouldn't have a voice like that to match. _He found himself staring blankly at him, unsure of exactly what to say to follow that up. "You said I have a therapist?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, the grin still on his face, "You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother. Your phone - it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But you're looking for a flat-share, you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches — not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already."

He pointed to the bit on the back of the phone, which had been pulled out and was being inspected, and invaded John's bubble for a moment. "The engraving?"

There was a nod of approval from the cat, "Harry Watson - clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father - this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara - who's Clara? Three kisses says a romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently - this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then - six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it - he left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch."

There was a pause as Sherlock thought about the next part. _Bit of a shot in the dark, but look at him hanging on your every word…_ "You're looking for cheap accommodation and you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."

A wonderful mix of surprise and awe flashed across John's face, "How'd you know about the drinking?"

_He has no idea how much I'm enjoying this, does he? _"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection - tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see? You were right."

John looked back and forth from the phone to the extremely pleased cat, who seemed to be purring without making any noise at all, "_I _was right?"

Sherlock looked over, an eyebrow raised quite clearly, as if the action had been practiced many times over and was almost as worn on his face as incredulous stare he had given Lestrade earlier for being so… simple? Was simple the word John had been looking for?

"The police don't consult amateurs."

The mysterious man turned his head and stared back out the window, thinking silently to himself about things he would never share. John sat there and replayed every moment back in his head.

"That was amazing."

There was a sudden rustle of cloth as Sherlock snapped his head around to look over at John. The ears on the top of his head were plastered back to his skull, almost as if he had been extremely surprised and didn't know how to deal with it. His face was deadpan, but there was something alive in his eyes that said he hadn't been expecting that reaction and it was more than welcome.

"You think so?"

John shook his head, "Of course it was. It was extraordinary. Quite… extraordinary."

A smile lifted the corner of Sherlock's mouth again and said quite quietly, "That's not what people usually say."

"Why? What do they usually say?"

"Piss off." There was a low laugh that John felt compelled to join, and the two of them sat the rest of the journey comfortable with each other.

When they arrived, Sherlock paid the cabbie and stepped out of the car with such grace that John cursed himself for making the already amazing man seem that much more graceful. He hobbled behind him as Sherlock strode up to the yellow police tape and stared sourly at the black woman standing there.

"Freak's here," she announced into the walkie-talkie.

"Donovan," He replied curtly.

"Hold on, who's this?"

"That's John Watson. Colleague of mine," he shot John a look that said _go with it if you want to see anything good._

"You've got yourself a colleague?"

"Surprised?"

"What'd you do, follow him here? You know curiosity kills the cat, and freak here is no exception."

John watched the two of them bicker for a moment before they were both let through after Sherlock hissed, "Let us through, he's with me."

Donovan shrugged and let them under the tape when a man with a potato nose approached them.

"Ah, Anderson. My favorite crony…" He had teeth that reminded John of a rabbit, and the twitchy nature didn't help much either. "This is a crime scene, I don't want it contaminated, clear?"

"Crystal," Sherlock purred, and John suddenly had the feeling that this was an old argument that the man addressed as Anderson never seemed to win. "Your wife away for long then?"

_You didn't go there, Sherlock, _John thought to himself, although he was actually quite wondering how this would play out.

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out yourself. Somebody told you."

Sherlock blinked, "Your deodorant told me."

"My deodorant?"

John sniffed the air cautiously, he could smell it. Plain, sticky, obviously for men. He heard Sherlock comment on the gender it was for, before realizing Anderson wasn't the only source of the smell. John's eyes travelled to Donovan and raised an eyebrow cautiously.

"Of course it's for men, I'm wearing it."

There was an exceedingly brief moment where John and Sherlock's eyes met and a mischievous twinkle confirmed what John had been thinking. "So is Sergeant Donovan. Oh- seems like it vaporized. May we go in, then?"

Anderson seemed to be rooted to the spot, "Now what you are implying-"

The "I-know-all" grin was plastered on Sherlock's face, his ears twitching back and forth happily. "I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally came around for a right nice little chat and happened to stay over. And I also assume she scrubbed your floors while she was there, judging by the state her knees are in."

Donovan blushed and looked at her knees. John followed Sherlock towards the house, leaving a confused and angry Anderson in the front yard.

"That man is too in touch with his inner rabbit, John. He jumps anything that moves…"

John struggled to hide a laugh, and he was pretty sure Sherlock had seen it because the cat gave his new colleague a soft wink as they headed into the building that John knew smelled of death.

**Sorry the chapter is short… It's late and I felt bad that you all didn't have anymore Hybrid!Lock. I promise not all the chapters are going to be like these, where it's show dialogue and then my bits between them. I'm going to only use the **_**really**_** important parts, but seeing as the beginning is really important… Well… And I know I'm not writing all the scenes out from the cases. You all know them. I mean you ARE fans.**

**Reviews are love. Fan art is love. Reading is what keeps me going. ~Kootenai**


	6. The Ever Circling Hawk

**Once again, a lovely hello to all the readers! I'm really beside myself with all the love you guys are giving to this! The day after I posted the last chapter, I had 1.9 thousand hits. ALL THE LOVE!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except the keyboard and the ideas. Sherlock belongs to BBC, ACD and himself.**

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><p>Chapter 6 ~ The Ever Circling Hawk<p>

John followed Sherlock into the house, watching his new companion sweep his eyes over every detail, as if cataloging them to memory.

"So, did I miss anything?"

"Hm? What?"

"Did I miss anything? I don't suppose I could get every detail correct about my deductions of you…" There was a slight turn of the head on Sherlock's part as he leaned closer to the ground to look for some sort of invisible signs that made up his deductive thinking.

"Harry and me don't get on. Never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce and Harry is a drinker," John shifted his stance so he was more comfortable as he watched Sherlock run his eyes over the whole scene.

In turn, Sherlock looked up at John, seemingly rather pleased with himself. "Spot on then. I didn't think I'd get everything."

John allowed himself a quick smile, "Harry is short for Harriet."

The look of complete disbelief on the cat's face was such a stark contrast from the "look-at-me-and-my-brilliant-mind" look he had on a moment before, John couldn't help but chuckle to himself.

"Sister! Your sister! There's always something…" he grumbled to himself as the pair walked into the house. _Always something… I bet if I had checked the music files on the phone I would've known…_

At the base of the stairs, Lestrade stood waiting for them, his ears pricked up at the unfamiliar sound of a cane approaching. He handed John a blue suit, which he pulled on with a bit of difficulty as Sherlock merely snapped on a pair of white surgical gloves. There was a silent conversation between the fox and the cat that was spoken with raised eyebrows.

"Upstairs," was the only thing Lestrade said.

Sherlock nodded curtly, his brown-black curls bouncing slightly. It was obvious to John that he was excited about being here, but for the life of him, John couldn't figure out why. The house smelled like death, a smell all to familiar to the ex-soldier. With a cautious sniff, he could also detect the slightest hint of blood. It was a metallic tang that he could taste in the back of his throat. _Why would anybody want to be here? It's almost as if he likes the whole idea…_

There was a soft click of a tongue above John. He craned his head back to look up, only to find Sherlock looking down at him, eyes glinting with excitement. "John, we only have so much time…"

John growled softly and began the long ascent up the stairs. _God, I hate stairs… I never want to see them again. Sure it's fine if you have legs like Sherlock's, long and graceful. Blasted leg…_

When he reached the landing, Sherlock gave his companion a once over and walked into a room that had been lit with forensic lamps.

The first thing John noticed was the audacious color the body was wearing. A bright flamingo pink was draped about the body, and it was absolutely disgusting. He blinked a few times, trying to get his sharp eyes used to the brightness of the color. _Well, that's rather… pink._

In the time John took to try and get himself situated, Sherlock had walked around the body once, taking in all the details he could get without touching. _Pink, disgusting color. Facedown, why is she facedown? Shoes, still on the body. Matches pink jacket. Fingernails, manicured, pink, chipped on one hand from writing "RACHE". Rache… German for "revenge". Not likely. Name then? Rachel. That is not her name, so important. File for further processing…_

He knelt down next to the body, his fingers in his pocket to pull out a magnifier. Sherlock's eyes ran over the jewelry, _clean. Clean. Clean. Hello… dirty. Ring, wedding. Dirty on the outside, not cleaned like the rest of it. Indicating bad marriage for… 10 plus years based on style and dirt. _He gently pulled the ring off the finger, noting it took a little force to get over the knuckle. _Clean on the inside, so removed regularly. One lover? No, it's too clean for one person. She must've removed it for many. String of lovers, then. _ Sherlock replaced the ring then ran his finger along the outside of her coat collar. _Wet. _He repeated the action on the inside of the collar. _Dry._ There was a small smile and he inserted his hand into her pocket and half drew an umbrella out. _Dry. So, heavy winds, collar up. Raining. Hasn't had time to dry, so within thirty minutes of here._

John watched the man work, which was a quiet process. There was something about him that looked different. It was as if he had forgotten how to move gracefully. There was some hopping and shuffling that reminded John of a bird moving back and forth on it's perch. _Why would he remind me of a bird? He's obviously a cat…_ He shook the idea out of his head and observed as Sherlock stood up and regained his unearthly grace as he fished his phone out of his pocket.

"We know she's not from London."

The interruption caused Sherlock to look up from his phone and for John to turn around and see Anderson leaning in the doorway.

"Rache. That's German for revenge, so-"

The moment the potato-nosed man started speaking, Sherlock crossed the room and shoved the door in on his face. "Yes, thank you for your input."

Lestrade shifted his weight from his left foot to his right, the sliver tail swishing back and forth behind him sending signals of uncertainty. "So, what do you know?"

"John?" Sherlock glanced from the pink body to John, as if asking him what he thought. There was a short grumble, but John found his way to the body and put the cane on the ground. He brought his nose closer to the corpse and breathed in, his mind sifting the information. _Well, all I can smell is death and the blood from her fingers where she wrote "Rache", whatever that means._

"No sign of a struggle. Suffocated on her own vomit?" it was a question only because John wasn't sure what exactly was going on.

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I had hoped you'd go deeper." There was a touch of disappointment in Sherlock's voice before he stood up to face Lestrade.

Sherlock glanced around the room one more time and locked eyes with the detective inspector then let out on a long rant similar to the one he had given John in the car. What the army doctor had caught was something about Cardiff, a string of lovers, an unhappy marriage, and that she worked in the media. Sherlock continually mentioned a suitcase that was not in the room, and when John asked about it, the man casually pointed at the splatter mark on the back of her calves.

There was a moment of silence before John spoke, "That was… amazing."

Sherlock tilted his head, ears turning backward, in what John now recognized as a "I-had-no-idea-you-were-going-to-say-that" gesture. "You do realize you do that out loud?"

"Oh. Um, sorry."

There was a soft glow of warmth coming from Sherlock's eyes and he coughed slightly, "No, it's fine."

"What is this about a suitcase, Sherlock?" Lestrade broke the moment, his own curiosity winning out.

"Yes, where is it?" Sherlock clapped his hands together and twirled about the room, his coat flying behind him in a distinctly dramatic fashion.

"There wasn't one in here."

The movement stopped as the dark haired man snapped his head up, then charged out of the room and down the stairs yelling behind him, "Has anyone seen a case, a suitcase?"

John followed him to the stairs, watching in awe and slight envy for being able to move so quickly.

"Serial killer is always hard. Have to wait for them to make a mistake…" his fingers were drumming against each other as his thoughts flew a mile a minute.

Lestrade leaned over the banister, "But we don't have time to wait!" His ears were twitching angrily, which John actually thought was sort of amusing.

"Oh, we're done waiting! Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake!," he shouted up the stairs, his hands flying around him. "Get on to Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!"

The fox next to John scowled as he watched the cat do his strange deductive thinking dance. "Of course, yeah, but what was the mistake?"

At this point, Sherlock had seemingly had a break through and had started to leave. He hurried back to the railing and hissed, "PINK!" before running off into the night.

John blinked a few times, and then found himself rather alone and in the way. Shuffling down the steps, he took the blue crime scene suit off and placed it gently on a table before limping out the door and towards the yellow tape.

As he approached Donovan, she turned and gave him a sad smile. "He just left. He's always doing that."

"I'm sorry, but where am I?"

"Brixton."

"Right, and where can I find a cab? It's just… my leg." He gestured to his leg almost angrily.

Donovan lifted up the yellow tape and let John under, "Try the nearest road. And listen. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

John gave her an odd stare, _I'm sorry, who are you to be giving me advice when you are shagging a rabbit?_

"You aren't his friend. He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

"I'm nobody, I've just met him."

"Do you know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."

John stared at her in disbelief, "And why would he do that?"

Donovan shrugged and lowered the yellow tape, "He's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored."

"Right, then…" John turned his back on her and walked towards the nearest street from the house with the dead pink lady inside.

As he was walking, his thoughts ran from the accepting glances and nods he had received to the emotionless front Sherlock put on in front of the forensics team. _That man has some serious trust issues, more than me. He's different though, not just the way he thinks. There is something actually-_

A phone rang in the phone box next to him. John's blue eyes swiveled as he stared at it. The phone continued to ring until he had walked past. _Odd._

It wasn't until the forth phone that he actually walked into the phone box and answered the damn thing.

"Hello?"

"Do you see the camera across the street to your left?"

John didn't question the cool voice on the other end of the line. He turned his head and nodded towards the CCTV camera.

"Now watch." The camera rotated and aimed it's glassy eye at a wall. The voice proceeded to direct John's attention to two other cameras, which in turn shied away from their original posts to observe something ordinary.

"Now get in the car."

A sleek, black car pulled up outside the phone booth and braked, waiting for John to climb in. He looked both ways and opened the back door before sliding in as the car took off.

In the backseat was a beautiful young woman, chocolate brown curls hanging just past her shoulders. A smug little smile seemed to have a permanent place upon her mouth, and her attention was directed towards a mobile phone in her hands. John wasn't sure what animal she shared her spirit with, because whatever it was had been hidden far better than he thought was possible.

"Well, I'm John."

A smirk climbed onto her lips, "I know."

There was an awkward pause, and then, "What's your name then?"

The woman seemed to think for a moment, as if her name was something that she had forgotten, "Anthea."

"That's not your real name, is it?"

"Nope."

"Right…"

The awkward silence fell upon them again before John tried to make conversation, "So, get any time off?"

She laughed, almost to herself. "Yeah, loads."

John waited for a moment, wondering if that was all he was going to get out of her before realizing the car had parked and the woman was sort of shooing him out. "Well, off you go then."

He pulled himself out of the car, only to find that he was in some sort of warehouse. The car's lights were shining on a man in a suit who was leaning on an umbrella. As John approached, he found that his first impression of the man was _serious_.

The stranger had brown hair, meticulously groomed into place. Under a broad forehead and eyebrows lay two brown eyes. They were piercing, predatory, and rimmed with a dark yellow. The man's nose reminded John of a beak from bird of prey, something that predatory eyes stared down as if judging anything that moved. His lips were thin and pulled into a tight line. All in all, John might've been more terrified if it wasn't for the umbrella. _Seriously, a black umbrella?_

"You do know I have a phone. I mean it was all very clever, but you could've just rang me. On my phone."

There was a shift in the man's position, and John caught sight of brown wings folded behind the man's back. They seemed almost for show, as if this wasn't something the stranger was used to showing. _Hawk wings, so I am dealing with a predator. I can't seem to catch a break from them, can I?_

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet. Hence this place. Is your leg bothering you? Take a seat." He gestured to a chair placed not five feet from where John was standing.

"I don't want to sit down."

There was an odd feeling that John had passed some sort of preliminary test in the stranger's eyes. "You don't seem very afraid."

"Yeah, well you don't seem very frightening."

The man walked closer to John, his feathers rustling against each other, "Yes. The bravery of a soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? What is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?"

John stared questioningly at the man. _That's the second time today somebody asked…_ "I don't have one. I barely know him. I just met him yesterday."

A surprised eyebrow was raised on the stranger's part as he looked John over, "Hm and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

A scowl was finding it's way onto John's face, "I'm sorry, but who are you?"

There was a polite smile and then, "An interested party. You could say I'm the closest thing Sherlock Holmes has to a friend."

"And what is that?"

The stranger picked up his umbrella and studied the handle closely, "And enemy."

"An enemy?" _This is just about the most ridiculous day I've ever had. _

"In his mind certainly. If you were to ask him he'd probably say his archenemy. He does love to be dramatic." There was something about the clean cut "k" and "c" sounds that seemed familiar to John, but he put the thought away quickly.

"Well, thank god you're above all that," he stated with an eye roll.

"Do tell me, are you going to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I'm pretty sure that is none of your business."

"It could be."

"No, I don't think it could."

"I'm prepared to pay you to tell me what he is doing. Can't be easy to pay for a flat in London on an Army Pension." He reached into his suit to pull out a check book.

"Are you asking me to spy on Sherlock Holmes?"

"Nothing that you wouldn't be uncomfortable with disclosing."

"No, I'm sorry. But that's not right. I can't do that."

An eyebrow was raised as the man pulled a manila folder out and glanced over its contents, "It says here 'trust issues'. Could it be you decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

John felt his face scrunch up as his eyebrows lowered, "Who says I trust him?"

"You don't seem to be the kind of man to make friends easily…"

"I'm sorry, are we done here?"

The stranger raised an eyebrow, "I imagine people have already told you to stay away from him, but I can see by your left hand that that's not going to happen."

"My what?"

The stranger held out his hand for John, silently telling him to show him his left hand. "Remarkable. Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you."

John snatched his hand away from the man with hawk wings, "What is wrong with my hand?"

There seemed to be an amused smile, "You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's posttraumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service-"

"Who the bloody hell are you? How do you know that?"

The silence was stifling, but the man turned around and started to swing his umbrella back and forth, "Fire her. She's got it the wrong way around. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it. Welcome back."

The man looked over his shoulder and gave John a bit of a nod, "Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson."

He spread his wings in a gesture of status before John caught sight of the extra limbs shrinking back into the stranger's frame. John shook his head in disbelief as the woman from the car walked up to him.

A quick buzzing in his pocket alerted him to a text message.

_Come to 221B Baker St. if convenient. –SH_

John looked around, not believing that he went from one strange encounter to the next. Suddenly, the phone was buzzing again.

_If inconvenient, come anyway. –SH_

"I'm supposed to come and get you now. Is there somewhere you are supposed to be going?"

John sighed, "Yeah, 221 Baker Street."

A third and final buzz alerted him to another message.

_Could be dangerous. –SH_

"But we need to make another stop first."

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><p><strong>Long chapter is LONG. So yes, Mycroft is a hawk, and Anthea is undecided.<strong>

**I know I shouldn't be picky when asking for reviews, but if/when you write one for this fiction, can you please, **_**please**_** refrain from using text and quotes? If some people are going to read the reviews before deciding to read the story, I'd appreciate it if you didn't ruin the reading experience for others. As River Song would say, "Spoilers!" ~Kootenai**


	7. Flamingo Pink

**Hello, hello… So sorry that this took forever… I've had a bit of a "do not want to write" writer's block. For any of you readers who are fan fiction writers out there, I DO NOT recommend writing fictions that follow BBC Sherlock cases. It's hard and it limits creativity. So, I'm hoping that this is the last or second to last chapter in the Pink story arc. **

**As always: I own nothing, characters belong to ACD and BBC. HOWEVER! I do own the characterization for the spirit animals and the Hybrid story line. Please, be kind and don't rip off my story. If you want to make fan art or something like that, send me a PM and you are more than welcome to it.**

**A/N: This chapter, as odd as it sounds, is for my parents, who actually read my fan fiction. As much as I freaked out when I first found out that they read it, because seriously, do you want your parents reading some of the stuff **_**you**_** write? They are unbelievably supportive and love the story just as much as you wonderful people in the fandom. I'm very lucky to have parents who support even my oddest hobbies…**

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><p>Chapter 7 ~ Flamingo Pink<p>

Sherlock knew that John wasn't following him as he headed outside the building. He strode past Donovan and down a dark alley. _So, the murderer had the suitcase, alarming pink. Wouldn't want to be seen with that. I give him fifteen minutes to realize he has it, which means he dumped the case around this area…_

He jogged down the alleyway and scaled a fire escape with ease. On the roof of the building, he paced about looking for the opportune place to dispose of a hideous suitcase. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and scratched a spot behind one ear absent-mindedly. He leaned over the edge and scanned the rubbish piles below, quick green eyes darting back and forth under the moonlight.

There was a quick flash of white as he grinned, then vaulted himself over the edge and down three stories. Sherlock landed on the balls of his feet in a crouch, and thanked fate for making him part cat. When he stood up, he brushed the dirt off of his coat and began to rummage through the trash. Within twenty minutes of his search, he came across a pink suitcase with a dark pink flamingo embroidered onto it.

"Flamingo pink, why am I not surprised…" he playfully shook his head and pulled the case out of the bin, then made way to the main street and hailed a taxi.

After he had checked the contents and set the case in a corner, Sherlock lay down on the couch and twirled the single black feather between his fingers. It helped him think. There was something about the rhythmic dancing of light off the blue-black feather that calmed his mind and sharpened it all at once. He glanced over at his phone, knowing he couldn't text the murderer from it, in case the number be recognized. _John's phone number wouldn't be recognized…_

He raised an eyebrow and quickly proceeded to text John three times before settling into the couch again. His ears stood on guard as he closed his eyes and let the raven feather lay upon his nose and forehead. Then Sherlock did what he considered himself rather good at. He waited.

John arrived not ten minutes later, looking around the flat. Sherlock didn't notice it really, he heard words going through his ears, but didn't register them. He had three nicotine patches spread across his left forearm and he massaged them gently, still balancing the feather on his face.

"I need you to send a text."

"You dragged me half way across London to send a text?"

"I couldn't use my phone. The number's on the website," Sherlock shrugged, cat eyes focused on the edges of the feather. "There's a number on the desk. These words exactly…"

He told John what to type, and immediately asked if he had finished the task. _Slow fingers… Probably types with two fingers alternately punching the keys._

"Sherlock, what's- Is that the case?"

Sherlock smiled to himself and picked the feather up gingerly before placing it out of harms way. He stood up and pulled the case out and onto a chair, flipping the top open so John could observe the contents.

"Tell me what you see, John."

"A book, overnight clothes, what am I looking for?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "It's what isn't there that you are looking for."

"I don't see it."

Palms slid against palms as Sherlock rubbed his hands together excitedly, "Her phone, John. She had a string of lovers, was careful about it. She worked in the media business, and there was no phone on the body or in the purse found with her body."

"Hold on, so who did I text?"

There was a glint of teeth as Sherlock grinned.

"No, no, no. I did not just text a dead woman."

"No, you didn't. Somebody has her phone. Now the text you sent wouldn't warrant a reply from any normal person. But…"

"Did I just text-"

John's phone rang, the caller ID was blocked. John looked up, eyes wide. Sherlock grinned back and flipped the suitcase closed.

"But a murderer would panic!"

Twenty minutes and a short rant from Sherlock about people who could be seen and not noticed later, the pair arrived at a restaurant opposite the address given in the text. John had watched his new flat-mate closely, noting that the man actually did seem to get off on this business. There was something pure about it though, as if he was just curious as to why anybody thought they could outsmart him. It was a little immature in John's eyes, but he said nothing as he followed the bouncing chocolate curls into the building.

The pair sat down and Sherlock situated himself so he could look out the window past John. Every once and a while, cat eyes would catch gold misted blue ones and the expression would soften.

A man bustled up and shook Sherlock's hand, "Sherlock!"

"Angelo."

"Anything off the menu for you and your date."

Sherlock's eyes drifted over towards John. _First reaction test._

"I'm not his date," John furrowed his eyebrows. _First Mrs. Hudson and now Angelo? Did Sherlock ever bring anybody home or out?_

Although he didn't show it on the outside, Sherlock felt himself build a wall around his emotions. _Well, that was quick. He's not interested, so I'll just keep to myself then…_

Angelo and Sherlock had shared a brief conversation revealing the nature of their relationship, but John wasn't paying much attention. At least, not until Angelo suggested bringing out a candle to enhance the atmosphere.

"I'm not his… date," John started to call out, but fell a little short. _I give up._ He looked over at Sherlock, whose ears were perked up and on high alert while his eyes busily scanned the street outside. It seemed as if they made a point not to make contact with John's. They sat there silently for a minute or two before John felt he needed to break the silence.

"So, um, got a girlfriend?" He tested the waters. _How could somebody like you not have a girlfriend?_

John wasn't receiving Sherlock's full attention when he answered in a drawl, "No… Not really my area…"

_Not really… Oh… _"Got a boyfriend then?"

Sherlock finally made eye contact as his eyebrows furrowed, "No-"

"Which is fine," John stated and looked out the window. _Jumpy, John? Really, are you hoping he says no? Did he just say no?_

"I know it's fine," Sherlock looked back out the window, eyebrows still drawn together, ears swiveling slightly.

"Oh. Good. Well, then you are unattached… Like me." John mentally slapped himself in the face as the younger man turned to face him again, a single eyebrow raised.

"John, while that's flattering… I'll have you know I consider myself married to my work and-"

"No. No. I just meant…. It's fine."

The eyebrow was raised even higher, but Sherlock didn't press John. He turned again towards the window and watched foot traffic crawl by. _Interesting. But this is not a time to examine emotions. No, the game is on, Sherlock. Watch for anything…_

John was glad Sherlock didn't press him about it, but was secretly a little sad that the man didn't have anybody and didn't seem to think John was capable of being that person. So instead, he took to looking out the window as well, his fingers intertwined with each other. They sat there for ten minutes or so before a cab pulled up to the address they were observing and Sherlock's eyes widened in pleasure.

"John, follow me now."

Sherlock got up so quickly, John almost missed the entire movement. The taller man burst out the door and ran to the cab, which pulled away before they could get to it. John followed and tried to commit the license number to memory. By the time he actually got to Sherlock, the man was talking to himself with his fingers at his temples.

His head shot up suddenly, "This way, John!"

He started running and took a left, John right behind him until he collided with the Sherlock's back.

"Sorry, THIS WAY!"

Sherlock took off at a break neck pace in the opposite direction; John doing all he could to keep the fluttering ends of the coat in eyesight. They sped down alleys, shoes splashing rhythmically in puddles from yesterday's rain. Flying past streets, John shouted apologies at people as they passed but kept his eyes locked on the man in front of him. _I need to follow him, wherever he is going. I can't lose him, or I'll get lost._ Suddenly, John found himself jumping gaps between buildings with Sherlock coaxing him to move faster. _I'll show you faster you little-_

There was a sudden break in motion as they stopped right in front of the cab. Panting and out of breath, Sherlock pulled a badge out of his pocket and flashed it at the cabbie before opening the back seat. Ten seconds past before he groaned.

"What?"

"Just arrived from Heathrow. Not our man."

The American in the cab looked confused and Sherlock shot him a fake smile.

"Enjoy London," he said then quickly moved away from the cab. John followed him, slightly out of breath.

"Where's the badge from?"

There was a chuckle, "Nicked it from Lestrade when he wasn't looking. I have quite a few back home… Ready to run again?"

John looked back over his shoulder and saw the American on the phone and casting suspicious glances back towards himself and Sherlock.

"Ready when you are."

Sherlock gave John a quick grin and the two set off again, not stopping until they had reached Baker Street. They fell against the wall of 221 laughing together. It was as if they had been doing this for years and were sharing an old joke.

"I haven't done anything that insane in my whole life."

There was a rumbling of baritone as Sherlock chuckled, "And you invaded Afghanistan."

John wiped a tear from his eye, "Yeah, well I wasn't alone."

"So, you're staying then?"

"What? I never said anything-"

"The man at the door did though." Sherlock cocked his head towards the door right as a few knocks were heard. John raised an eyebrow only for the younger man to raise one back.

John opened the door and found Angelo outside, "Angelo?"

"Sherlock said you might be needing this," the Italian man handed John's cane back to him. Shocked, he took it back and thanked Angelo before turning to look at Sherlock. _I ran across London with this man. This insane man who just proved my limp was all in my head._

The cat nodded with a knowing smile before Mrs. Hudson hurried down the stairs.

"Sherlock… What did you do now?"

Pale eyes narrowed and ears twitched before Sherlock jumped up the stairs and into the flat.

"What is going on here?"

John followed slowly and looked into the flat. Lestrade was seated in a chair while men and women were looking around the room.

The silver fox shrugged, "It's a drugs bust!"

"Seriously? Him? Have you met him?" John felt his loyalty to the man who just gave him his ability to walk without a cane flair in his chest.

Sherlock stood quite still, ears pressed flat against his skull, "John…"

"I mean really…"

"John." The voice was stern, cutting even.

"No."

"What?"

"You?"

There was an animalistic snarl, "Shut up."

"Oi! What are these?"

John and Sherlock turned to look at Donovan, who was holding a jar of eyeballs.

"Are these human eyeballs?"

"Put them back."

"They were in the microwave!"

"It was an experiment. Now put them back!"

There was a hostility rolling of Sherlock that John could almost taste. He slowly backed off as Lestrade and Sherlock argued with each other and pointed at Anderson, who seemed to enjoy doing whatever it was he was doing. John started listening to the conversation again when the pink suitcase was mentioned.

Anderson strolled up, "And according to _someone_, we'd find the suitcase with the murderer. And look where we found it! In the hands of our favorite psychopath!"

"I am not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high functioning sociopath, do your research," he sneered in reply.

"Well what are we going to-" Lestrade started, but was interrupted by Sherlock pacing about and suddenly throwing his hands into the air.

"SHUT UP! EVERYBODY JUST SHUT UP! Anderson, face the other way, your face is putting me off."

"My face?"

There was a bristling in Lestrade's tail as he growled, "Just do it."

Sherlock paced, ears flicking back and forth as he spoke aloud to himself before clapping his hands together.

"Don't you see? Rachel!"

Two identical blank stares rewarded John and Lestrade with a more frantic, "Rachel! Oh, dear god. What is it like in your funny little heads? It must be so boring… Rachel! It's not just a name…"

He picked up John's laptop and talked through his deduction as he pulled up a mobile phone website.

"Clever woman… Uses her phone for everything and plants it with the murderer. Rachel isn't just a name it's a…"

"Password," John finished, getting a rewarding glance of "good job" from Sherlock.

The man quickly pulled up the mobile's tracking device, and they all waited. Waited until the computer told them it was…

"It's here?" Lestrade asked.

"No… it's not," Sherlock narrowed his eyes, thoughts running a mile a minute as he stood up and almost walked into Mrs. Hudson.

"Sherlock, there's a cab here. Says it's for you."

"I don't need a cab," he said dismissively.

"He won't leave…"

While this exchange was going on, John was trying to keep the forensics team from ripping the flat apart looking for the phone. If his ears weren't as good as they were, he'd have never heard the slight buzzing noise that Sherlock's phone made as it received a text. He wouldn't have heard Sherlock angrily fish it out of his pocket. And he certainly wouldn't have heard the soft "Oh…" before the phone made it's way back into the coat's pocket.

"I'll take that taxi actually…"

John raised an eyebrow and watched as Sherlock exited the flat, "You alright?"

"Just need some air…"

_Something is wrong… Something is very not good…_ John spied from the window as Sherlock spoke to a man with beady eyes and a very rat like face. There seemed to be a brief discussion before Sherlock willingly got in the back of the cab and the two drove off into the night.

John didn't need to be in tune with his inner animal to know that something very strange and not right just happened. Quietly, he opened the laptop and pressed the refresh button and waited.

He waited for two and a half minutes until the little blinking light that showed the dead woman's phone popped up on screen again. It was nowhere near 221B. In fact, it was moving away rather fast.

"LESTRADE!"

The fox practically jumped before remembering that John was in the flat as well, then hurried over to him.

"What?"

"It's moving, or rather, it's stopped."

"What?"

"Excuse me."

John pushed past the Detective Inspector with more force than was necessary and practically ran out the flat. Behind him he heard frantic shouting of commands.

_Please, don't let me be too late… Just once, _John thought to himself as he flagged down a taxi and slid into the back seat, practically shouting the address of the school at the driver. He drummed his fingers nervously against the armrest, feeling the cool touch of metal against his back. _Thank god I stopped back and got it… Now I can only wish this damn cabbie would drive faster…_

When they arrived, there was already an empty cab parked at the entrance. John shoved the fare at his driver and ran into the building. He could hear every slap of rubber against the just cleaned floors. He could feel his pulse racing as he banged on each door only to find the room empty on the inside. There was a bitter taste in his mouth as he screamed Sherlock's name in time to the pounding of his shoes on the tile.

He felt his heart stop as he came to a window and saw Sherlock staring up at a pill, his back to John. The cabbie's rat face turned up in a smile as Sherlock's hand began to tremble, bringing the pill closer to his lips.

"SHERLOCK!"

John grabbed the gun from where it was lodged against the small of his back and whipped it out in front of him. The whole world seemed to slow down as his hand steadied and he aimed. Everything moved as if it was a flipbook, slowly and frame by frame. The pill was an inch from Sherlock's lips when there was a sudden force on John's arm and the piercing sound of shattering glass.

Time sped up as John fell to the floor, out of sight from the room he just shot into. He waited on his back, trying to convince his heart to beat normally again. Five minutes passed and he gathered himself together and slipped out of the building.

Quietly, he made his way out and down a block before jogging back to the entrance, where police cars and an ambulance were stationed. The sirens were blaring, but John couldn't hear much from the ringing in his ears. The lights were more distracting. He slid the still hot gun back into its hiding place, wincing as it burned his skin slightly.

Walking through the crowd he pushed his hands into his coat pockets and waited twenty feet from the ambulance and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. John looked into the distance and tried to look as non-menacing as possible while Lestrade forced an orange blanket back onto Sherlock.

"Why do they keep putting this blanket on me?"

"It's for shock."

"I'm not in shock," Sherlock scoffed.

"Well, some of the boys wanted pictures," Lestrade shrugged with a smile.

"No sign of the shooter?"

"Cleared off before we got here. Guy like that would have enemies though. One might've been following him, but we've got nothing to go on."

The smirk was visible even in Sherlock's voice, "Oh, I wouldn't say that."

"What have you got, then?" Lestrade sighed.

"The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a handgun. A kill shot like that over that distance from that sort of weapon, you're looking for a crack shot but not just a marksman, his hands musn't have shaken at all so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger so obviously has a strong moral principle. You're looking for someone probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel..."

John took a moment and locked eyes with Sherlock, a tight smile on his face. For what John supposed was the first time in his life, the cat's face smoothed out in surprise and he stopped midsentence. There seemed to be a brief conversation between grey-green eyes and golden blue ones that added up to "I did it, and you're welcome" and "thank you".

"Actually… you know what? Ignore me."

Lestrade looked taken aback as John smiled to himself and looked away innocently.

"Ignore all that. It was just the… shock talking," Sherlock started to walk away when the fox pulled his arm.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"I just need to talk about, um… the event…"

"But I've still got questions!"

"Oh, what now? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!" He brandished the horribly orange thing in Lestrade's face before walking over to John.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and joined John.

"I heard about that thing with the pills. Two bottles? That must've been awful."

"Look, thank you."

John looked up at Sherlock and saw he actually meant it. He smiled but then saw the man with the umbrella behind him.

"Sherlock…" John muttered and tilted his head towards the man in the suit leaning on the black car.

"Mycroft…"

There was another verbal exchange that John didn't quite follow until he heard the word "mummy".

"Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for traffic…" Sherlock stated before walking away.

John gaped open mouthed between the two men, "So… let me get this straight. When you said you were interested… When you said you worry about him…"

The man now known to him as Mycroft studied the handle of his umbrella, "Constantly."

"Right… right, then… don't get along well do you?" John shot him a look of slight disbelief.

"You should have seen the Christmas dinners…"

John raised an eyebrow and gave Mycroft a quick nod before running to catch up with Sherlock, who seemed to be waiting for him. The man was sporting a small smile, which grew as John neared.

When the two started to walk together, a fit of giggles came over the both of them.

"Stop it! We can't giggle! It's a crime scene!"

That only made John giggle harder, and in response Sherlock laughed louder, earning a few funny looks from people they passed. A minute later, after calming themselves down, Sherlock mentioned a name, almost in passing.

"Moriarty."

John turned his head and licked his lips, "What's a Moriarty?"

Sherlock glanced down at his new companion and raised an eyebrow elegantly, "I have no idea. Chinese sound good?"

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><p><strong>Again, sorry that took forever to get to you all! I've been in a slump. But, I have already written the next chapter, and I'll release it soon enough. (Yay!) As you can tell, I'm still alive. I've been working on short ficlets of the kidlock variety and a Cabin PressureSherlock crossover. I've been busy, busy**_**, busy**_**! I know I sort of butchered the end of the episode, but you all know how it went so I don't feel like I needed to write it all out.**

**Just so you know, the Cabbie was a rat. Mycroft doesn't usually wear his wings. It would be a pain to get all those suits tailored just for the soul purpose of being able to stretch an extra set of limbs. A few people have asked about Mrs. Hudson. I'm sorry I didn't make it obvious, but she's a hen. A mother hen. It'll show up in later chapters.**

**Anyway! Much love to all the readers! (There are quite a few of you really!) Reviews are wonderful, and I still ask that you don't quote text if you do review. Thank you for reading and sticking with my odd publishing schedule. –Kootenai**


	8. Crocodile Tears

**Okay, just so you know, I wrote this chapter before finishing the "A Study in Pink" case. I did it because it came to me before I fell asleep and I needed to write it so it didn't lose anything. This is also the first chapter that is completely my own work.**

**Oh, and this is sort of why it's rated T. Because this man gets in my head and makes me think things that shouldn't be thought and it scares my friends here at college.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock, any of the characters, nor do I own the song lyrics mentioned.**

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><p>Chapter 8 ~ Crocodile Tears<p>

A pale face smirked into the light of a mobile phone. The face had a wide forehead; dark, thin eyebrows were playfully arched above sunken eyes. He tilted his head, leading the movement with his chin as he ran a hand through slick black hair. The man blinked, but it was not a normal blink. A second eyelid flew across his eye, a thin stretch of skin he could see shadows through. His outer eyelid lowered and sprang back up, revealing brown eyes that spiraled into an envious green. A dangerous green. The pupils were longer vertically, giving the appearance of a rested reptile.

The man cracked his neck, short and sharp sounds echoing in the room around him. He grinned, his teeth slightly pointed at the ends, and ran his tongue over the long, delicate canines. The movement was nothing more than a flicker, but enough to disturb most people and he took pride in that.

He was seated in a chair, his Brooks Brothers suit coat resting on the back. His white button down unbuttoned slightly at the top. Black pants encased slim legs that were crossed one over the other, ending in brightly polished black leather shoes. His foot twitched with impatience as he scrolled through the rest of the news on his mobile.

"So, you figured it out, didn't you, pet?" His voice was slow, dripping with poisoned honey and disturbing affection.

The door to the room swung open as a woman walked in and brushed the couch opposite the man before sitting down. The room was large and open, two chairs and a couch with a coffee table between them. The walls were a rich cream with white crown molding, and the floors were covered with short tan carpet and a single beige rug. There were windows, but soft gossamer curtains of white blocked any direct sunlight.

"Hello, I'm sorry about the wait," her voice was polite and the man nodded to himself as he looked her over. She was in her young thirties, dark red, almost brown hair put up in a loose bun. A grey pencil skirt hung fast to her form, showing off her natural curves quite well. She had been born with a desirable shape. An off-white button up blouse was tucked into her skirt and made her look professional. The woman had light brown eyes and a small nose, upon which a pair of thin framed glasses rested.

"It's fine. I'm sure you are a busy person, Ms. Reese," the man nodded to himself and reached down to pull a dark leather briefcase up and onto the table between them. "I am here to do business."

"Yes, of course. You were interested in borrowing one of our employees?"

The man narrowed his slit-like eyes, "No… I'm interested purchasing your personal body guard."

Ms. Reese looked shocked, then shook her head, "No, I'm sorry, but he's not up for any kind of additional contract."

"Oh, Ms. Reese, Elizabeth. May I call you Elizabeth?" The man shifted foreword in his seat and stood up slowly, "You can't deny me what I came for. I even brought you the agreed sum, in cash."

With an almost lazy amount of effort, he flicked the fastens on the briefcase open and gently pulled the top back, revealing an interior full of crisp bank notes. Elizabeth slid foreword and ran her hand along the paper.

"It's tempting, but I can't. He's indispensable," she sighed.

The man slowly walked around the coffee table and rested his hand upon hers, "Then let me tempt you in another way…"

Elizabeth turned her head, her eyes wide, "I'm sorry, who are you exactly?"

He sat down next to her and put a hand on her thigh, then leaned in and whispered into her ear, "I'm the patron saint of the denial."

She blushed and tried to back away from him, only to push herself further into the couch. He smiled a soft, wicked grin and climbed over and onto her.

Her voice was something like a whisper of fear with the soft touch of longing, "Who are you?"

He ran a finger down the side of her cheek and under her chin, guiding it up and towards his face, "I'm the patron saint of the denial, love. And you are denying me."

His other hand pulled her glasses off slowly then tossed them towards the table, then guided her lips to his. There was no spark between them, one side confused and scared, the other cold and calculating. Elizabeth leaned in, beginning to need more than what the man was offering. He smirked and flicked his tongue out against her lip, a soft repetitive pattern that she grew to enjoy. She gave him dominance over her mouth as his tongue slithered in and pressed against her teeth and the roof of her mouth. When she tried to retaliate, he let out a soft warning hiss and pulled away, tugging her lower lip with his teeth. She let out a soft whimper.

He kissed slowly up to her temple and down to her ear again, where he whispered, "I'm the patron saint of the denial." She nodded, hearing the statement for the third time. "With an angel face…"

His breath hot on her neck, he kissed and bit his way down to her collarbone, where he nibbled tenderly for a moment then looked up at the woman coming undone in his hands, "With an angel face, and a taste for suicidal!"

A dangerous, insane grin ripped across his face before he violently pulled the woman closer to him. His teeth found their way back to the collarbone and he sank his long, delicate canines into the flesh. There was a surge of euphoria when she screamed and he felt a release from beneath his sinuses. The man slapped her brutally across the face before pulling his teeth away from the puncture wound on her neck. Drops of blood mixed with venom pooled up at the wounds and fell in rivulets as she began to bleed.

He smiled and pulled away completely, looking over at Ms. Price. He ran a finger softly down the side of her face again as she started to shiver and tense up.

"W-w-h-ho are y-y-ou?" Her ability to talk was already weakening as she fought against venom now coursing through her body.

The man stood up, brushed his shirt off with his hands, then draped his suit coat over his shoulders. He picked his phone up again and looked through it before sending a text to somebody.

He leaned over her, his face in hers as he smiled a soft and mad smile, "I'm the patron saint of the denial. With an angel face and a taste for suicidal."

Standing up, he turned around and closed the briefcase as a tall blond man with a mobile phone entered the room. The man was lean, but well muscled. He seemed the silent type, the kind that got the job done the first time you asked. He had a strong chin with stubble growing there that added to his physical attractiveness. The new man was taller than the one who had just bitten Ms. Reese. The blond looked from Elizabeth to the man who was staring at him with a look that said "yes-yes-he-will-do".

"Are you Colonel Sebastian Moran?" there was something very slick and business like about the voice now, as if he was bored because he had killed his plaything.

"Yeah, who's asking?" Sebastian asked, slipping his mobile into his pocket.

"Your new employer. You can address me as boss," the man pulled a piece of gum out of his pocket and wiped a single tear away from his eye. It was a rather large tear, and Sebastian wondered if Ms. Reese had meant something to him.

"Are you alright… boss?" he tested out the new title, finding it was pleasing on the tongue.

The dark haired man rubbed the tear into non-existence between two fingers and looked up, "Crocodile tears. Happens every time I inject someone with venom. It's the curse of being a chimera."

Sebastian furrowed his eyebrows and crossed his arms, "A what? I've heard some weird spirit halves from when I was in the military, but I've never heard of a chimera."

The shorter man rolled his disturbingly brown and spiraled green eyes, "A chimera. A mythical beast made of a combination of creatures. You would call it a hybrid."

There was a moment of pause as Sebastian processed this information, "So then what are you exactly?"

The dark-haired man rolled his shoulders back and went to crack his neck again, "Snake and crocodile. You will be bear-able."

A smug grin danced upon the chimera's face at the pun, "No need to get your pantyhose in a bunch over that, Seb. May I call you Seb? It's so obvious you're half grizzly. I mean, where else would you get such an intimidating face and set of muscles, hm?"

Sebastian glared slightly at the man who was now his employer. He seemed to not care about killing a person and his voice was somewhere between singsong-insane and seductive. Not that Seb minded the killing bit, he had done enough in his own time to enjoy the feeling of having a person's life in the palm of his hands. The man standing before him though, seemed to just enjoy the art of killing. His employer was now chewing the bubble gum rather noisily while scanning through information on his phone.

"I'll work for you, not because of what happened here, but because I'm bored." Which was true. Being a personal body guard did a good job fattening the wallet, but it was rather boring for somebody with Sebastian's military background.

"Oh, that's the best answer I could've hoped for," the wicked grin was on his face again, sharp teeth white against thin lips.

"Why me though?"

"Hm? You? Well, your military career, the reason why you had to leave, your skills as a gunman, your skills with a knife, your martial arts training, your looks and the fact you can make a mean stack of pancakes." The man winked slightly, which Sebastian caught only because of the double eyelid. _Well, that's new. Never met somebody with two eyelids... _

"… I'm not even going to ask about the pancakes."

"Then don't," the man in the suit shrugged and snapped his gum.

Sebastian ran a hand through his short hair and looked at the dead body on the couch, "Are you just going to leave her there?"

"Do you think we should _do_ something about it?"

"…No. Not really."

There was a dismissive snort, "That's what I thought. Now, go and grab your gear. We're leaving as soon as we can. I've got some business to take care of in China."

Sebastian was on his way out the door, before he turned around and looked at the little man. _So much destruction in one tiny body…_

"What's your name, boss?"

The man flicked his evil eyes up and raised a thin black eyebrow, "Jim Moriarty. Hi."

He wiggled his fingers at his new sniper and dismissively put ear buds in his ears. Sebastian shrugged and went to gather his weapons and clothes, but down the hall he could hear Jim singing.

"My name is Jimmy and you better not wear it out, suicide commando that your momma talked about…"

Sebastian shook his head, knowing that this employer would be a bit harder to handle than Ms. Reese. _And a hell of a lot more interesting. I don't think I'll have a single dull day with that man._

"King of forty thieves and I'm here to represent, the needle in the vein of the establishment."

Jim paraded around the room, singing loudly to himself. He danced his way over to a window and pulled back a curtain dramatically.

"It's comedy…"

He pulled the other curtain back so that the front of his body was bathed in sunlight.

"And tragedy."

When Sebastian reentered the room, he found Jim over at the window, a dark shadow against the light of day. _That fits my first impression to a "t". One black shadow where there ought to be light._

Jim raised his hands over his head with the grace of a ballerina and shouted, "It's St. Jimmy!"

He spun quickly, ran over to the couch and jumped up on it, shaking the poisoned body lying there. Jim hopped down and pulled a box of matches out of his pocket, lit a single one with a flick of his wrist and dropped it onto an open briefcase full of money lying on the couch. It burst into flames, ink giving off a putrid smell as it burned.

Sebastian quietly observed what he now declared a madman, and watched the fire slowly grab onto the cloth around it and begin to devour the body of a late Elizabeth Reese.

"And that's my naaaaame!" Jim somehow managed to glare at the dead woman and smile at the same time. It sent shivers up the gunman's back.

"And don't wear it out," Moriarty whispered, then leaned down to lay a final kiss on the flaming woman's forehead.

There was a moment of silence before the smoke alarms went off, and the insane Jim was back from his quiet momentary holiday.

"Come on, Sebastian. We need to pick a bouquet of Black Lotus for a very clever friend of mine…"

Sebastian followed the strange, insane, brilliant, snake-crocodile man out of the building.

_Why do I feel like this is going to be the last employer I ever have?_

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><p><strong>YAY! I had wanted to write a fic to "St. Jimmy" ever since I realized that it is really Moriarty in song. If you want to give it a listen, it's by Green Day and on their "American Idiot" album. Elizabeth Reese is my own character. I felt like explaining how Sebastian and Moriarty found each other, and this is what happened. High fives to anybody who figured out it was Green Day lyrics before it got to St. Jimmy.<strong>

**Reviews are love; fan art is welcome, and more fiction to whoever sticks around! ~Kootenai**


	9. Cat and the Fiddle

**Hello again! Sorry this chapter took a while. I've been not writing. Obviously. So, here's the next chapter of Hybrid. (Warm welcome back to Sherlock's wings)**

**Usual disclaimers apply.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 9 ~ Cat and the Fiddle<strong>

A week had passed since John had moved in officially to 221B Baker Street. In that time, he had learned a few things about his new flat and flat-mate. One of the first things he found out was that when Sherlock had mentioned under his breath that Mrs. Hudson was a "mother hen", he had been quite literal. The woman was constantly fussing about, clucking her tongue when Sherlock did something out of the ordinary, which was quite often. She shuffled around a bit, blaming her hip, but John noticed that it was actually a clever way of disguising the way her walk mimicked a hen's. He didn't bring it up.

The second thing he learned was that Sherlock often spoke to him as if he was there. On one such occasion, he had entered the flat from a trip to Tesco to restock on basic food supplies. As he was putting the groceries away, John finally took notice that Sherlock was talking in a low, constant stream.

"Beg your pardon, Sherlock?"

The man's black ears twitched in recognition of John's voice, "I said, how many otters do you suppose could fit on a commercial air jet?"

John raised an eyebrow, then scratched an area behind his ear while looking away, "Um, well, why do you want to know?"

Sherlock's grey-green eyes narrowed, "I told you an hour ago. I received a case from a small airline. Something about illegal otter smuggling… If you were listening, you would have known that."

John stared at Sherlock, almost in disbelief. _Who would try to smuggle live otters somewhere? Has he really been talking to me for over an hour even though I wasn't here?_

"Sherlock, I haven't been here."

The man shrugged slightly and pressed his fingers together and laid them gently on his chin, "How many otters, John."

At this point, John had returned to putting away the groceries, just finding a rather artfully dissected hand in the fridge. His face greened slightly as he pushed a jar of jam inside and closed the door quickly.

"I'd say about a hundred. Why is there a hand in the refrigerator?"

Sherlock nodded to himself, "That is all."

Then he stood up and walked away, leaving a rather confused John staring at an empty chair.

Besides the body parts in the kitchen, the experiments littered around the flat, and the general oddity of living with Sherlock, John found it rather easy to adjust to his new life. In fact, the only thing that Sherlock had warned him about that he had not encountered was the violin playing. It seemed as though the cat had taken it upon himself to play only when John was out.

Another week had passed, when John stumbled upon a vast collection of music in the linen closet. There were CDs, sheet music, blank musical scores, and even some tapes. The music itself seemed to range from anything classical to everyday chart-toppers and hits. There were a few sheets of music that had notes scrawled upon them in an untidy hand that John assumed was Sherlock's. As he looked through the collection, he failed to hear the cat step up behind him. In fact, he didn't notice until he could feel someone breathing lightly on his neck.

"Find something interesting, John?"

John spun around, almost right into the taller man's chest. He stepped backwards, almost into the closet, the tips of his tapered ears burning red.

"I was looking for, um…"

Sherlock tilted his head and crossed his arms loosely in front of him, "If you were looking for sheets, I believe you found the wrong kind."

John looked up sheepishly, which he thought was a rather odd thing for a wolf to do. Sherlock hadn't even bothered to put on everyday clothes. He stood in front of John wearing blue pajama bottoms, a worn gray t-shirt and a blue dress robe, which he decided didn't need to be closed. His black ears were almost impossible to find amongst untamed chocolate curls.

"Right, um, sorry then…" John edged slowly out and away from Sherlock, feeling embarrassed. _How does he manage to look like that without even trying?_

Cat eyes followed John as he retreated. A slim, pale hand reached into the closet and pulled out a few sheets of music and then, as quick as he had appeared, Sherlock disappeared down the hall and into his room, locking the door behind him.

There was silence in the flat for another hour before John called out to nobody to say that he was going out for a while. The door to the flat closed beneath Sherlock's feet, and he peered out the window to watch John walk away.

He waited for ten minutes, making sure he was alone before checking his room for any devices Mycroft may have placed. Once he was sure that he wasn't being watched, Sherlock pulled the curtains together and clicked the lamp at his bedside into life.

Sherlock was one of those people who kept their own rooms rather neat and tidy, only to let the rest of their living space become cluttered with everything else. He found it was easier to record and shift through memories in his mind palace if his main living area was neat and organized.

He quietly slid the dark blue dressing gown off his slim frame and folded it, placing it on the edge of his bed. A moment later, his gray shirt joined it there. Sherlock rolled his neck, cracking the bones and stretching the muscles. It had been half a month since he had stretched his wings, and he didn't want to pull anything. There was a moment of stillness as he concentrated fully on remembering what it was like to be completely himself.

A warm and gentle ache spread down his spine, coaxing out a soft purr. Invisible threads pulled from his shoulder blades as he arched his back. Black feathers emerged slowly from the crown of his head, first small, then gradually growing larger as they followed his spine and spread out to his back. It took all of ten minutes this time before he heard the soft rustle of feather on feather and for the warmth to disappear completely.

Sherlock rolled his shoulders, adjusting himself to the added weight of wings. Slowly, he stretched his arms in front of him and felt a pull from the extra limbs behind him. _God, I missed that._ He stretched his wings out to their farthest, almost reaching from one wall to the opposite. There was more rustling as he pulled them back in towards his body, letting his raven wings hug his torso loosely as he reached out before him and spread the sheet music upon a music stand.

He picked up his violin and tuned it, listening with a content look upon his face. The strings were another voice for him. Sherlock had diagnosed himself as a sociopath, although he knew that wasn't truly the case. Even though emotions were confusing and foreign to him, that didn't mean Sherlock didn't understand them or was incapable of having them. He had decided at a young age that emotions were a sign of weakness and would most likely hurt him more than help, so he sealed them away. He never spoke of them, he never revealed them, which is why the violin was so important.

There were times when Sherlock felt, _truly felt _things, and that was when he played. Oh, yes, he played to help him think as well, that was true. But he did so so that he could examine information with his own emotional input as well. The rhythmic dancing of his fingers helped the thought process along too. When he was alone like this though, Sherlock played so that he could express himself.

While he was thinking all of this, this business about emotions, he had taken to playing _Moonlight Sonata_, feeling like he had been haunted by feelings since John had arrived. Now though, he took it upon himself to stop, although he rather wouldn't have. He glanced over the notes on the music before him, then raised his bow and gently pulled it against the strings.

The combined rush of self-expression and the perfection of one pure note ran up his back and through his wings. Sherlock closed his eyes and swayed gently, listening to the vibrations in the air and the gentle rustle of feathers. He was so wrapped up in _feeling_ he didn't notice John return to the flat.

It was the first time John had heard the violin being played that way. It was at a level of simplicity it seemed complex. He could hear something more than sound as he stepped into the flat. At first he almost didn't understand what was going on or what he was hearing. Slowly he understood that he wasn't just hearing music, he was hearing bare bone emotion.

John sank into a chair and closed his eyes, listening. He didn't recognize the song at first, but then lyrics started to tumble into his head.

_Sometimes I feel like_

_I don't have a partner,_

_Sometimes I feel like _

_My only friend_

_Is the city I live in_

_The city of angels_

_Lonely as I am_

_Together we cry_

Sherlock didn't remember when he had first heard it, all he did remember was that he understood it, the loneliness that had played through the speaker and into his heart. There were times when he didn't understand how being so lonely was possible, how feeling like the only thing that understood him was London. She had always supported him and always would. She never changed and would never turn him away. She loved him unconditionally and London would never have a more caring guardian than Sherlock.

_I don't ever wanna feel_

_Like I did that day_

_Take me to the place I love_

_Take me all the way_

There was something so personal about the way Sherlock played that John didn't understand how this man believed himself to have no emotions or was incapable of understanding them. He felt a single tear drop from his eye and run down his face, leaving a warm, wet trail across his cheek.

_It's hard to believe_

_That there's nobody out there_

_It's hard to believe_

_That I'm all alone_

_At least I have her love_

_The city she loves me_

_Lonely as I am_

_Together we cry_

Sherlock swayed with the music, wing tips gently grazing the floor. Emotions like this were dangerous and so rarely did he express them that when he did, he became lost in the music. He felt it rise up through his body and then out of him in the shedding of a tear.

_Under the bridge downtown_

_Is where I drew some blood_

_Under the bridge_

_I could not get enough_

_Under the bridge_

_Forgot about my love_

_Under the bridge_

_I gave my life away_

_Here I stay_

When the song ended, Sherlock let the last note ring through the air before pulling the violin away from his body and setting it down carefully. He sat on the edge of his bed and wiped the tear from his face with his thumb.

John had gotten up during the last few measures and walked up to Sherlock's door. Two or three minutes after the song was over, he knocked gently on the wood.

"Sherlock?"

Inside, there was a quick intake of panicked breath.

"Sherlock, I just want you to know, I'm here. And thank you for sharing," John whispered softly. He knew the other man could hear him, so he didn't bother raising his voice. "I'm heading up now. Goodnight."

The younger man listened carefully to the sound of footsteps walking away from his door and then up the stairs. He heard a door shut slowly and then a few minutes later the collapsing of bedsprings. Sherlock let out air he forgot he was holding and pulled dark wings around him, giving himself a warm feathery hug.

He lay down on his side and reached out to turn the light off. He knew he wasn't going to sleep, but somehow he felt like the darkness would be a calming welcome to the panic that just ran through his system. _John heard. John knew._ Sherlock wrapped the raven wings around himself tighter and closed his eyes, willing himself to calm down. _Under no circumstances was John going to find out anymore. _He nodded, promising that thought to himself.

_Here I stay..._

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><p><strong>YAY! So, this song, "Under A Bridge" by The Red Hot Chili Peppers has been in my head for a long time. I figured it was actually a really good song for Sherlock, and I know that this is my second song inspired chapter in a row, but I sorta felt like it needed to be written this way. I'm going to continue referencing a few of my other favorite fandoms, so if you pick things up that don't belong to Sherlock, that's what is going on.<strong>

**Please review! This chapter and the one before it are finally works of my own invention completely. It means a lot to me, and I do respond to each review, because they mean that much. ~Kootenai**


	10. The Birdcage

**Chapter 10 ~ The Birdcage**

At three in the morning on the day following the violin encounter, Sherlock found himself sitting cross-legged on his bed, wings tucked behind him and his chin resting on steepled fingers. He was staring at the wall in front of him, blinking every once and a great while. His ears stood stiff in his messy hair, never moving even if there was noise. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he mentally shifted through memories.

While navigating his mind palace, sometimes it helped if he used his hands, but that was really just to speed along the process. If he was just looking, organizing or searching through the rooms in his mind, he'd do so by sitting still and eliminating the world around him. He wasn't sure what he was looking for this time until the phone on his nightstand beeped at him.

Without moving, his eyes slowly sought out the noise and registered it as not threatening to the thinking process. Sherlock went back to staring at the wall; trying to piece his thoughts back together when the mobile buzzed again. Sighing, he reached out and cradled it in his hand.

**Jaria Diamond. Take care of it will you?**

**-MH**

Sherlock quickly responded that he was busy and that the case wasn't interesting. He tossed the phone onto the bed and tried to get back to his thoughts. The mobile decided that this was not the appropriate time for thinking and chirped its opinion. He sighed and picked it up again, only to see another message from his brother.

**I'm sending somebody by around 10. Be presentable.**

**-MH**

With a groan, Sherlock placed the phone back on the nightstand and ran a hand through his hair, then down his face. It seemed like this was another one of Mycroft's stupid international problems that he "didn't have time for", so he saddled Sherlock with the issue. Sherlock brought his fingers together and then rested his chin upon them again, closing his eyes and letting out a loose sigh. He concentrated on each muscle connected to his wings and tested them briefly. It was a practiced routine done to ease his mind back from the noise of the world and into the organized silence of his thoughts.

During the process, his thoughts stayed on Mycroft. Sifting through memories he came upon one from his childhood, when he was about ten years old.

~_24 years ago~_

It had been two years since Sherlock had discovered his wings. He kept the promise he made to himself and never let another person see them, not mummy or even Mycroft.

At the moment, Sherlock was wandering through the garden when he came upon a dead sparrow. He crouched down to get a better look at the bird, then stood up and quickly surveyed the area. It seemed as though the bird had flown into a window and died. Sherlock knelt back down and cautiously picked the dead animal up, cradling it in his hands. _Why is it that things die due to their ability to be free?_

He walked back to the library and spread the bird out on the table, gently moving its feathers into the correct positions. After making sure the specimen had all of its parts in the right places, Sherlock set himself to finding books on the anatomy of birds. He placed them around the animal, flipping the pages open to wing muscle diagrams. Before this, he never had a valid reason to look at this information. If anybody were to see him, they would ask why he wanted to know about it, and Sherlock couldn't reply that it was because he was curious how his own wings worked. So he waited until the opportune moment, which had finally come.

Sherlock spent most of his afternoon pinning the wings of the bird to the library table and comparing the muscle of the specimen to the scientific diagrams in the books. He had almost missed the subtle noise of the door opening and Mycroft walking in.

"Sherlock."

"Hmm?" Black cat ears swiveled towards the source, but gray eyes still lingered upon latin words and phrases bound to the page in ink.

Mycroft closed the distance between them and laid his books upon the edge of the table. He was in his sixth form now and usually required the entire library space for afternoon and evening study. He was about to find a way to move Sherlock from his space when he noticed the bird pinned to the table. There was nothing between the back of the animal and the wood, and the only things that kept the body from moving were scientifically and accurately placed nails, which had been hammered into the surface of the table.

"Sherlock, that is mahogany. What am I supposed to tell mummy?"

Sherlock shrugged and went back to his comparison, fingers roaming the pages of old books, eyes alight with the pursuit of knowledge. Mycroft sighed and began to move some of the unused books back to their shelves when he felt a pair of eyes trained on his back. He paused his movement and slowly turned to face his little brother, who was watching him with the same questioning look he had been giving the dead sparrow not a moment before.

"Mycroft."

"Yes?"

"What does it feel like to fly?"

Mycroft blinked and then answered, "I wouldn't know. I can't."

An eyebrow was raised as Sherlock shifted his weight so that one hip was resting against the table. "Really? Why not?"

Mycroft sighed, then walked back to the table, only to stand on the side opposite his brother. "Firstly, I don't have hollow bones, so I'm not light enough. Don't you say anything about my weight, I am explaining something to you." He pointed his finger sternly at Sherlock, who was about to make a jab about his weight. Sherlock closed his mouth and quirked his head to the side, ears on alert. "Secondly, just because I am a hawk it is wrong to assume I'd have wings. I do have them, but not all bird spirits have wings. Thirdly, the only time I even display them is when it is necessary to show authority or intimidate another. My wings are not for flying, they have other uses."

Sherlock nodded to himself and looked back at the bird he pinned to the table. "Did you ever wonder what it was like?"

"All the time."

_~Present~_

That had been the only time he and Mycroft ever discussed anything directly related to their spirit halves. Sherlock was pretty sure that, even to this day, Mycroft had left the dents and gouges in the library table to serve as a reminder of how close they had once been. Before… everything else.

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his temples, sparing a glance at the clock. When he was in his mind palace, time was irrelevant. He would often lose track of it all together and hours would have passed him by. It was currently eight in the morning. He shook his head and stood up, stretching his legs and letting blood begin to circulate properly again. Sherlock took the time to run his fingers through his feathers, correcting any which had been put out of place.

When they resembled an entry in a textbook on wing patterns, he set about pulling them back into his frame. It took longer to hide them than it did to release them, and it wasn't nearly as pleasant. Sherlock let out a soft groan as the feathers slid back under his skin and the extra limbs slowly shrank out of sight. Fifteen minutes later, he was as much of a cat as he let on, not a single thing about him said any different.

He yawned and pulled on his shirt and dressing gown before walking through the flat. A note on the kitchen table told Sherlock that John went out for groceries and that if he was using the milk as an experiment to tell John before he came across it by himself. Sherlock smiled softly and traced the letters with a single finger before making himself a cup of coffee.

Sherlock took his mug and walked over to the window and looked out towards the sky. A few birds flew across it, casting shadows on the windowpane. _One day I'll fly away. Far away from these people, far away from the social birdcage. But for now… I'll watch._ He sipped his coffee and scratched a place behind his ear, then made his way to take a shower, seeing as he had to be "presentable" for whoever was stopping by about the Jaria Diamond case.

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><p><strong>I know… Long time no update. Sorry! A few things happened, writer's block and life. Awful, right? I also got sucked into the Supernatural fandom so… yeah… I did reference another fandom in this one, and it's quite obvious. This chapter was a set up for the beginning of the "Blind Banker" case, which I'm going to sort of fly through, highlighting the important bits like John's job, the encounter with Sebastian, the circus blah blah blah. College is wrapping up for me, so hopefully I'll have more time to write for you guys.<strong>

**OH! I've received three pieces of fan art for this fic, and I'm incredibly happy and amazed that people liked the story enough to make it into art. If you made fan art or are going to, just send me a PM and you're good to go. Or you can contact me on DeviantArt (ninjawolf226).**

**Review if convenient, if inconvenient, review anyway. Please? ~Kootenai**


	11. Chapter 11

I keep forgetting people actually read my stuff. Sorry that this has taken forever.

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><p><strong>Chapter 11<strong>

The morning had been, in Sherlock's words, ordinary. After wrestling with a rather angry curtain, which had tried to kill him with a sword (a sword of all things, really) and then cleaning up, which was something he normally would not do but now that he had a flat mate he found that he did more of it than normal, he sat down in his chair to read a book.

He felt his ears twitch as he recognized John's familiar gait on the floor below him. Hiding his face behind the pages, Sherlock tilted his head, listening for the inconsistencies in the footsteps. _Ah, John is frustrated. _

John made himself known at the top of the stairs, eyebrows furrowed and teeth bared. Sherlock listened politely as John ranted about having a row with a machine. A small smirk graced Sherlock's face as he imagined John shouting abuse at the chip and pin. There was the relinquishment of his own card and then John saying something about needing a job, which reminded him…

"We need to go to the bank," was the only warning given before Sherlock pulled himself up gracefully and put on his coat and scarf. He gave a quick glance to John, silently inviting him along, before heading out the door to hail a taxi.

As the pair entered the bank, John followed Sherlock up onto the escalator. He was going to ask Sherlock a few questions about letting him use his card, but Sherlock seemed to be watching a man in a tan trench coat with narrowed eyes. John followed his gaze. The man in question had dark black hair that seemed as if it needed a good combing, bright, round blue eyes that seemed to stare into nothingness and large black wings that nearly touched the floor. Sherlock and the man made eye contact, and when they did Sherlock's ears pressed back against his head in warning. The man tilted his head slightly then nodded and took flight.

"What was that about?"

"Hm? Oh, he's somebody I didn't think I'd see here. He usually stays in the States and brings me information or interesting cases from time to time."

"Ah."

When they reached the front desk, they were escorted to another office in the time-share division. Sherlock's eyes raked over every cubicle, often glinting silver in the florescent light. In John's mind, there was nothing more amazing as the switch between the lazy cat-like Sherlock and the predatory, hunting Sherlock that was on the case. It was like he was electrified and bristling with energy.

Why did it feel like this was not just an ordinary trip to the bank for John?

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><p><strong>Yeah, really short. I know. I need to rewatch and stuff, but it's been four months so I want you guys to know I still am on board with writing this. I'm going to REALLY glaze over this episode, because I kind of hate it. I do reference other fandoms so love to the SPN crowd there.<strong>

**-Kootenai**


	12. Pop Goes The Weasel

**Hello, yes I am alive. Yes, I did take a ginormous break. I just found out that this is in 4 fanfiction archive community things and I'm like… "What?" You are all so fantastic. I realize this is going to be a short chapter. I'm sorry. Sherlock has taken a back seat in my life at the mo, and stuff so… here *throws story at you all***

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><p>Sherlock seems to stiffen visibly at the call of his name across the office. A man with a weasel-ish face in a suit is approaching them and John can barely make out the uncomfortable hardness in Sherlock's eyes.<p>

"Sebastian," was the quick reply.

"How are you buddy? How long has it been, eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?" The voice was oily and John couldn't help but wonder why the hell Sherlock even knew this man.

The cat gestured briefly towards John, "This is my friend John Watson."

Sebastian looked a little bewildered and suspicious, "Friend?"

"Colleague," John shot back quickly. He didn't see the sudden frown on Sherlock's face when he was corrected.

_Well, at least I know where I stand on that issue_, Sherlock thought coldly to himself.

An assistant with wide eyes checks in on the three of them while green cat eyes dart around the room and seem to be measuring everything and nothing at all.

"You are doing well, traveling all around the world…" Sherlock stated quietly before zeroing in on Seb's watch, "twice a month."

Sebastian gave a smile that was more like a painful grimace and directed his sly eyes towards John. "He's doing that thing. We were in Uni together and this guy here, he had this trick he used to do."

"It is not a trick," Sherlock growled, eyes narrowing until they were green slits and his ears pinned back in his hair.

"He could look at you and tell you your whole life story," Sebastian sat back in his chair, obviously gloating over having some control back.

"Put the wind up everyone. We all hated him."

John gave a glance towards Sherlock and allowed himself to be amused by his friend's, no colleague's, obvious discomfort at the mention of his university days.

Sebastian continued, his weasel face smug, "You'd come to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak," there was a pause to let the word sink in, "would know who you'd been shagging the previous night."

Sherlock tried to look as unmoved as possible. He didn't enjoy university and he most certainly did not enjoy being called a freak. "I simply observed," he stated quietly.

There was an amused chuckle, the kind you hear when a parent is just baiting a child with what they are sure is an incorrect assumption.

"Go on. Enlighten me. Two trips a month and flying all round the world? You're quite right, but how could you tell?"

Sherlock was about to launch into his deduction when he was interrupted by, "Gonna tell me there's a stain on my tie from a type of ketchup only found in Manhattan?"

The cat's eyebrows furrowed as he struggled to get a word in.

"Or maybe it's the mud on my shoes?"

Sherlock glanced briefly at John and then schools his features before saying politely, "I was chatting with your Secretary outside. She told me."

John gave a quizzical look at Sherlock before watching Sebastian's smile fade.

"Regardless, I'm glad you could make it. We've had a break in."

Sherlock's eyebrow shot up and he gave a twitch of a smile. Internally John groaned. The game was on._ Again_.

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><p><strong>Again, thanks for keeping with this. I swear I'll post more when I start rewatching and stuff. Reviews are nice.<strong>

**-Kootenai**


	13. Chapter 13

**And now back to our irregularly scheduled chapters that skim over my least favorite episode.**

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><p>After watching the security videos, Sherlock examined the yellow message left for the bankers. It was a cypher of some sort that much was obvious, but it wasn't like any he had ever come across before. If he had a tail, he was sure it would be twitching as he raked his memories for anything similar to the number patterns. He furrowed his eyebrows as he took pictures of the cypher, and when he was finished with that he turned on his heel and walked back out to the cubicles to figure out who received the message.<p>

John watched in amusement as Sherlock scurried around the bank office area. The man was constantly narrowing his eyes or ducking around pillars. It looked like a strange dance, and it seemed to amuse some of the other workers. Sebastian was wearing an expression that said that he'd rather be somewhere else and that he would not want to be associated with Sherlock in any other way, or quite possibly that he in fact didn't know Sherlock to begin with. John rolled his eyes and continued watching what looked like Sherlock's interpretation of a kitten chasing a laser pointer.

At one point, Sherlock went back into the office that had been broken into and stepped outside onto the balcony. He glanced over the railing, confirming that this was much too high for someone to just climb up completely, whether they had some helpful animal spirit or not. His ears twitched as he processed the idea of possibly entering the bank and then running across the balcony from another area. _Possible, but not probable. Someone would have noticed that surely. _Sherlock leaned over the balcony again and noticed a few marks on the windows below him and raised an eyebrow. _Might have used a window and hoisted themselves up. Possibility. Window cleaner? Probable. _The floors below him also had a few balconies, which looked worth investigating on another day or when the situation called for it during this case.

A bird flew past him and landed on the corner of the railing before tilting its head and then flying off. _Don't tempt me. _He narrowed his eyes, pinned his ears back to his head and turned to go inside where John was waiting with arms crossed and obviously confused.

Sherlock was already on his out of the cubicle mayhem when John caught up, "So, we're taking the case?"

"You accepted the check from Sebastian."

John's hands closed around the piece of paper in his pocket that he took a moment before while Sherlock was on the balcony, "I did, but that was because you had already said no to it."

"John, I do not require money for my services. Solving the case is enough," he stepped into an elevator and waited for John to join him, when he did Sherlock pushed the button and they descended to a lower floor.

"But it was five figures! Five, Sherlock, just to figure out the security flaw."

The cat rolled his eyes, "Have a nice chat then?"

"No, not really. But might I ask-"

"If it is about university, no you may not," Sherlock interrupted as they stepped off the elevator.

"It wasn't," John replied after a moment. _I wonder what did happen at university that makes him so cross._ "I wanted to ask why you told him you had been chatting with his secretary when you hadn't."

Sherlock turned to John and gave him a quick cat-like grin that made him seem quite pleased with himself.

"You… you did that just to upset him didn't you?" John gave a soft bark of a laugh when Sherlock nodded slightly, his eyes lit up with amusement. "But, how did you know he had been around the world twice in the last month?"

The detective smiled and started to ramble about watches and international date lines while they exited the building.

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><p>They had arrived at Ed Van Coon's apartment and John watched in amazement as Sherlock schooled his features and the cat ears atop his head slowly disappeared into the dark curls. Human ears became more obvious on the sides of his head and John wondered if they had always been there or he had just never noticed them.<p>

"What on earth are you doing? Where did your ears go?"

Sherlock ruffled his hair a bit to adjust the curls so they laid correctly when there were no ears sticking out of them and twitching all the time.

"I hid them momentarily. People are weary about predators. If you move into another neighborhood, like this tenant did recently," he pointed to a name card on the buzzer, "then you usually do your research about who lives there and the general temperament of the area. It is far easier to be let in as a human being with a private relationship with their spirit self than it is to let in openly declaring yourself a predator."

John blinked twice as Sherlock pressed the call button. "But how did you do that?"

"It takes control and effort. You wouldn't need it; your features have less prominent animalistic properties. It is an ideal way to hide quite a bit of information about yourself."

John was about to ask another question when a woman's voice broke over the speaker and Sherlock invited himself to her balcony.

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><p><strong>Just wanted you guys all to know I am still writing this and it's writer's block and I'm sorry.<strong>


	14. The End

To all the readers and artists that support Hybrid, I'm incredibly thankful for you. Unfortunately, I don't know if I have time for this fic any longer. As of now it is on indefinate hiatus. However, I feel like giving you some other information about the Hybrid!verse for this fic.

I planned on giving a nod to most of my fandoms. The Tenth Doctor was supposed to appear at some point with some otter-esque attributes. You've seen Hunger Games, Cabin Pressure, Supernatural and maybe one other? I don't remember.

Sherlock survived the fall by concealing his wings under his coat and opening them at the last minute to slow the descent. He would've broken a few bones which would end the hiding of his raven side.

He would have hidden by hiding the leopard side and wearing the raven wings all the time. The cat green eyes would dull to a curious blue and he'd dye his hair either ginger or black. Sherlock would stop using any cat like movements and instead be a little jerkier in his motions and sort of fluttering around.

John would have returned to working at the clinic, becoming more and more removed from society. Most approach him as if he were on the edge of being feral.

Irene would have been a mink.

The whole HOUND project would have been about driving the animal side of the people insane, causing internal conflict and sometimes feral outbreaks.

Sherlock was going to work on the radio as a DJ and his show was going to be called "The Tower". He'd play classical and give opinions on the changing nature of music. He'd go by DJ Raven and at the beginning of each episode he'd say "The Raven is in The Tower" or something like that.

Of course they were going to meet up again at some point, either John becomes a fan of the radio station or Sherlock just sort of ambushes John or something. I'm not sure exactly

And then John would punch him, yell at him and then Sherlock would apologize and explain everything and they'd go back to living together. Slowly or not so slowly their interactions change and they admit their feelings to each other, each amused by the others misunderstandings on their relationship.

AND THEN THEY ARE ADORABLE TOGETHER.

If you have any questions about the verse or my headcanons for it, let me know. Fan art is still loved and adored so you are more than welcome to submit some to me or link it to me on my tumblr. Again I am so incredibly sorry to put this story on haitus, but my life has run away from me a bit and well, life happens.

You are all fantastic and I love you all for reading my very first slash fanfiction ever. Thank you.

-Kootenai (my tumblr) ((In case you want to yell at me or submit stuff or ask questions or yell at me some more))


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